Absence of Grace
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; it isn’t until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them. Tasteful slash. ON HIATUS
1. The Fall of Boromir

**Absence of Grace  
****Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
__Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

He leapt from his seat, blood warming as the divine patience of his race was stretched thin. 'Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?' he demanded, glaring incredulously at Boromir son of Denethor. 'The Ring must be destroyed—it cannot be tamed!'

The man of Gondor glared back with diffused loathing carved deep into his facial features, then with utter disgust broke his gaze with the impetuous young Elf.

Legolas, driven by his contempt for the man's incredible ignorance, opened his mouth and would have stirred a battle that could only be ended in violence had not Gimli son of Glóin cried out, 'For whatever the Elves say _must_ be true! How foolish of us simple folk to think otherwise! I suppose you think you're the one to destroy the Ring, eh, Lord Elf!'

Boromir rose from his chair and snapped, 'If we fail in its destruction, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?'

Legolas stared at the man and the dwarf, trapped between two foes, unable to address either one for fear of leaving himself vulnerable to the other.

Gimli took advantage of the Elf's pause by springing from his seat and declaring quite rudely his thoughts on the Ring passing into an Elf's hands, which brought the remaining Mirkwood folk to their feet and aroused a great storm of argument between Wizards, Elves, Men and Dwarves. Over the quarreling heads Boromir caught the gleam of Legolas' livid eyes, which seemed to say that the matter between them has yet to be resolved.

Gandalf entered into the fray, booming of reason and restraint, though it was the small words of one hobbit that quieted the disordered row. The hearts of the Council were won by Frodo Baggins, and Legolas forgot his anger for a moment, offering his bow as Boromir offered the protection of Gondor. And soon six others had pledged their aid to Frodo.

'Nine companions,' Lord Elrond said with a knowing smile. 'So be it.'

But as the newly formed Fellowship adjourned, Legolas spied the man from Gondor gazing at him coldly, and the heart softened by a courageous little halfling was reminded of its promise.

'_I would see you try to take it_,' he muttered under his breath in his own tongue. '_And_ _I would see your ruin._'

...ooo...

The remaining month spent in Rivendell passed uneventfully. While the men busied themselves with preparations and the hobbits busied themselves with rest and recovery, Legolas kept with his silvan brethren and studied the Fellowship from afar. He doubted not Aragorn's skill, nor Gandalf's wisdom, nor Frodo's bravery, nor Gimli's determination, as obstinate as it was. The other three hobbits he felt were adequate companions. It was only Boromir who concerned him, though the man's stature and brute strength would be very precious to them all if worse came to worst. Legolas had seen him wandering the paths of Rivendell by himself, his actions at the Council earning him few friends. It was almost a sad sight to behold, this lonely, ignorant warrior in a strange land, and there were moments when the Elf stopped himself from approaching Boromir with sympathy; for the wisdom in his head and the whisper in his heart warned him from seeking companionship with one so wanting of trust. What good purpose Lord Elrond had seen in the man was unseen by Legolas.

With winter at their heels the Fellowship set out from the Last Homely House, nine strong and able-bodied, and made their way from the pleasant vale and onto the moors. Aragorn and Gandalf led, followed by the others in single file. Legolas guarded the rear, which put him unfortunately close to Boromir. The Elf often had to remind himself to keep his keen eyes on the surrounding land rather than on the man, whose mood had lightened since leaving Rivendell. Perhaps he was uncomfortable amongst the Elves, thought Legolas. Our people have many differences—still, his manners seem deplorable, even by Men's standards.

They made their way across the heath while cold winds buffeted them night and day, then into the still grasslands of Hollin, framed by the distant mountains. It was during one of these night marches that the young hobbit Pippin, exhausted from over a fortnight's travel, staggered, stumbled and fell. Boromir had darted swiftly forward and saved the halfling from the cruel ground.

'The road is long for one so young,' he said as he effortlessly lifted Pippin. 'Don't fret yourself, little one; soon you'll grow hardy enough for many roads.'

Since Bill the pony bore the burden of Boromir's shield, so did the man bear the burden of the tired Pippin upon his back. He wrapped the hobbit's arms about his neck and locked his hands beneath Pippin's bottom, holding him fast. The little Took immediately fell asleep with his cheek resting against the folds of Boromir's cloak.

Frodo glanced back to see what became of his cousin and a smile came to his face.

Legolas watched all with his heart in a state of confusing metamorphosis. Such selflessness and compassion shown alongside arrogance and pride baffled him. He had wanted so badly to find no good in Boromir of Gondor, yet it was not wholly possible. Unlike Orcs and Nazgûl, men were not altogether evil, yet none were truly pure. Some men were crueler than others while some held great kindness in their hearts. Legolas spent the night wondering which Boromir was.

...ooo...

The Fellowship marched across the scrubby plains of Hollin and made a valiant attempt to pass Caradhras with no success; it would be many days' travel before they would come to the gates of Moria, and in that time Legolas observed Boromir's bonding with the hobbits, with whom he seemed better suited than the sternness of the rest of the Company, who trusted him but a little more than a common stranger. Boromir seemed quite aware of this—of course he was aware, Legolas reasoned, he wasn't stupid—but he chose to ignore it, spending his time looking after the younger halflings. But whenever the man's gaze settled upon Frodo, especially after the incident on Caradhras, Legolas felt his skin prickle warningly.

'There is weakness in him, Gandalf,' he said. 'I see it.'

The wizard nodded, puffing on his pipe and staring at Boromir's sleeping form across the campfire. 'I see it too, Legolas. But Boromir needs our strength, not our spite.'

'It is a difficult task to achieve when he will have nothing to do with his fellows.'

'Indeed?' Gandalf smiled to himself. 'Perhaps then we should employ a warmer method of approaching Boromir. No doubt he harbors fears of further rejection from his peers.'

'Further?'

Gandalf turned a narrow eye to the Elf. 'He may not have a head for patience, nor a heart without burden, but he is a good man, Legolas. Do not let his actions in Rivendell cause you to pass hasty judgment.'

Legolas crouched down beside the seated wizard. 'I will not deny your wisdom, Gandalf, but you must feel it as keenly as I: he will come to an evil end.'

'Then it is our duty as companions to prevent this end.'

'How? I feel it is already inevitable.'

'Hearts change, my good Elf, and none so quickly as the hearts of men. Can you claim that you yourself did not hear the Ring beckoning to you at the Council? That you were not swept into temptation and dream-visions with the rest of us?'

Legolas looked shamed but said nothing.

'The Ring has called to us all, Legolas. Some of us hearkened more readily than others, and it is they who most need reminders of our love.'

The Elf's brow creased at the last word.

Gandalf grinned and patted Legolas' narrow shoulder. 'Do not begrudge him over so powerful a force, one that has held us all. Find mercy in your heart, Legolas. Contempt is unbecoming of your people.'

Legolas sighed thoughtfully, knowing Gandalf was right. 'I shall do my best, Mithrandir. But a doubtful friend is worse than a certain enemy. Let a man be one thing or the other, and then I shall know how to meet him.'

...ooo...

These were the last private words between Gandalf and Legolas ere the wizard fell to shadow and flame at the pass of Khazad-dûm. It was in the tomb of Balin that Boromir fought alongside Legolas, and spared him once from the jagged scimitar of an Orc. It was as the Fellowship fled through the dark that Legolas rescued Boromir from falling to his death in the endless deep of the mountain's belly. And it was with wounded, heavy hearts that they ran from the foothills into the borders of Lothlórien, leaving behind a fallen enemy and a fallen friend.

Legolas was so beset with grief that he unwittingly allowed the tattered remains of the Fellowship to be greeted by the Marchwarden's archers. In the end it was no matter, for they were in time taken before Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, who eased the aching of their sore hearts with kind words, and bade them to rest in Caras Galadhon.

Only Boromir seemed untouched by the tranquil beauty of the Golden Wood, and found no rest there. He slept alone if at all, and spent his days walking through the mallorn trees with his face distressed by care, or sitting moodily beside brooks as if awaiting further bad news. One had only to look at him to see that his mind was troubled. Though Merry and Pippin sought him out and brought temporary relief from his heavy thoughts, the man avoided Frodo almost entirely. Legolas knew Boromir was aware of his own weakness, and confided in Aragorn, who told the Elf of his somber conversation with the Captain-General.

'There is still hope for him,' Aragorn said. 'But there is none left in him. That is why he mourns so, Legolas. He sees his faults and not his strengths, and believes that the fate of Gondor rests on his actions alone.'

'Typical Man,' Legolas muttered, 'imagining he plays such a role in the course of all things.'

Aragorn turned to him, brow knitted. 'You have so little love in you heart for him, Legolas. It is not like you.'

'I have no tolerance for the ignorant and self-pitying. If Boromir feels himself deficient he should leave the Fellowship and return to Gondor.'

'How cold your words are! You are not the cheerful Elf I knew so long ago.'

'These are dark times, Aragorn,' he replied. 'I have trouble finding cheer when friends fall needlessly into darkness.'

The Ranger placed his hand upon Legolas' shoulder. '_Then we must look to the friends that remain with us_,' he said gently in the elven tongue, '_and help them find freedom from the grief that binds us all_.'

Legolas laid his hand upon Aragorn's. '_I cannot promise my heart will change_,' he said honestly, '_but I shall try to thaw its frost_.'

...ooo...

He came upon Boromir that evening, during the man's brief period of forgetfulness when the hobbits kept him company. Legolas approached quietly but did not yet show himself, for he wished to hear what Boromir was saying.

'-but Faramir had much more creative a mind than I, and he said to me, "Why don't we pour paint upon _all_ the statues so that they match?" And we did exactly that, little ones. O woe! when our father discovered what we had done!'

Merry and Pippin laughed brightly, a pleasant sound in the grave dusk of Lórien. The soldier of Gondor rested comfortably on a seat of mallorn roots while the hobbits sat before him on the grassy ground, listening with amusement. Boromir was smiling, the cares lifted from his face, which Legolas suddenly found much easier to look upon.

'But,' the man continued with a grin, 'little did Father know that the paint offered protection from the droppings of roosting birds-' Merry and Pippin collapsed on each other with laughter. '-and commissioned that all the statues in the city be painted!'

Legolas smiled and let out a quiet chuckle, unable to look upon such a scene of merriment without it affecting him. His heart grew lighter in his chest and he was suddenly glad he had come. Too long had he been burdened by dark thoughts and distrust; a brief moment of happiness in these dire times was more welcome than any forest breeze or ray of sunlight.

'I fear I've missed a great story,' teased the Elf as he stepped into view.

The two hobbits composed themselves as best they could as the smile faded from Boromir's face. 'Boromir was just telling us about his youth in Gondor,' Merry said, cheeks still bright with color. 'And how he and his little brother would stir up trouble.'

'Like we used to do,' Pippin chimed in, nudging his cousin with his elbow.

'And still do!' Merry added proudly.

Legolas smiled and clasped his wrists over his simple tunic. 'Will there be any more story-telling tonight? I should like to share in the laughter.'

'I'm afraid we were just finishing,' Boromir said as he stood to his feet. The hobbits moaned and whined in dismay. 'Come now,' he said to them kindly, 'I've told you six already! If I consent to another I fear you two will keep me up all night. Run along now. I'm sure Sam and Frodo are in need of pestering.'

Merry and Pippin pouted but heeded Boromir's words, scampering off to find the others. Legolas stepped forward once the halflings had disappeared.

'They seem to enjoy your company,' he said.

'I suppose they find comfort in my simplicity,' the man replied. 'I am not as cold and aloof as some.' The resentment in his voice was slight, but Legolas detected it well.

'Simplicity has its virtues,' he admitted gently, 'but one should be careful not to mistake coldness as something benign.'

Boromir grinned, turning to face the Elf. 'Indeed. Perhaps if we decided to speak directly to one another instead of playing this game of words, mistakes would happen less.'

Legolas drew to the man's side, untroubled by his confrontation. 'What then should we speak of, Boromir? The growing shadow? The loss of Gandalf? The Ring?'

The man made as if to step away, then thought better of it and stared at Legolas with passion churning in his grey-blue eyes. 'You are not as clever as you imagine, Master Elf. I know why you seek me now, as I know why I've felt your gaze upon me since the first step of this journey,' he said in a low, even voice. 'No doubt Aragorn has advised you to come to me as a friend and offer your companionship to see me through my stormy hour.' Boromir's voice was bitter and angry, though the look in the man's eyes told Legolas that he was also wounded at heart.

'There is no shame in asking for help,' Legolas whispered earnestly, 'especially if it is needed.' He placed a gentle hand on Boromir's arm. 'I would give what I can.'

Boromir snorted and stepped away from the touch. 'You would offer me consolation, but at the heed of others. I despise fallacies even more than this wretched forest filled with your lordly, cold-hearted people.' He turned his back to the Elf. 'I would not want your mercies, even if bestowed by your own will.'

Legolas clenched his fists. The man's ignorance never ceased to astound him, but he had neither desire nor time to explain that the Lórien elves were not truly his people; that his Mirkwood home was a humbler realm of tangled trees and deepening shadows; that the Elves only seemed distant because of the strange manner of the Fellowship's arrival in their land. This information would be lost on blockheadedness such as Boromir's. The man wished to argue, for it gave him an excuse to continue being withdrawn and filled with self-pity, the things which would lead to his downfall. Well, thought Legolas, I will not grant him that satisfaction.

'It is true that I am not here of my own will,' he called, catching Boromir's attention as the man was preparing to desert him, 'and there is no mercy in me for men who speak so cruelly of my race, but understand this, Captain Boromir: I know the lure which draws you ever closer to your doom, for I too have felt it. In this we are alike.'

Boromir smirked unkindly. 'Then you've suffered its lure far less than I, Legolas.'

'Only because I chose not to. You have that choice as well, Boromir. Rid it from your mind and your heart will be freed.'

He had hoped that his words would have cooled the man's temper but the Captain turned his head and disappeared between the trees. Any camaraderie the Elf had hoped to gain from their brief encounter had failed, at least for this night.

Legolas' hands loosened themselves and hung at his sides. 'Foolish man,' he murmured, then lowered his head. 'Foolish Elf.'

...ooo...

In what could have been a long time or very little, the remains of the Fellowship departed from the Golden Wood by way of the Anduin, and paddled southward in three grey boats. Carrying gifts bestowed by the Lady and wearing the grey-green cloaks of Lothlórien, their mood was one of lingering sorrow mixed with the will to see this journey through to its end. For ten days they followed the river's broad path, first through bare woods; then the Brown Lands, an empty and depressing waste where even animals declined to inhabit; then further downstream through reed forests, stony banks and grey hills. Roving bands of Orcs at Sarn Gebir gave them a volley one night, and an arrow would have surely killed Frodo had it not been for his míthril shirt. It was also this night that Legolas, bearing his long Lórien bow, shot down the terrible shadow that flew above them. Though none dared to say it, they knew it to be one of the fell beasts of Mordor, a steed of the Nazgûl.

After that wretched night the scenery began to change for the better, and they neared the Falls of Rauros and left the Wilderland behind. Here the heavy air of grimness lifted from the Company somewhat, Aragorn being especially gladdened by the sight of the Argonath and Tol Brandir.

On the evening of their tenth day they broke for camp at Parth Galen, where the constant dull roaring of the falls filled their ears. 'We shall rest here,' said Aragorn, then looking to Frodo, 'and decide which course the Ring will take.'

The Company were exhausted and had little difficulty finding sleep that night. Only Aragorn seemed uneasy, and took first watch. No enemies disturbed their rest.

The next morning Frodo said he should like an hour alone to make his decision. 'I need a quiet place to think,' he explained timidly.

'So be it, Frodo,' said Aragorn. 'Take as long as you need. But do not stray far.'

The Fellowship watched as the hobbit disappeared into the trees, but none so earnestly as Boromir. Only Legolas was aware of the man's hungry gaze, and it sent coldness down his spine.

Gimli stretched loudly. 'Ach, dwarves are no boatmen!' he complained. 'My legs are stiff and my arms like jam! What I need now is a warm fire and a good breakfast.'

Merry and Pippin, likewise sore from many days on the river, wholly agreed.

'I believe we could all do with food and fire,' Aragorn nodded with a grin, 'even Legolas.'

The Elf smiled obligingly.

Boromir stood to his feet. 'Well then,' he said, 'I will go collect more fuel. There is naught but soggy kindling to be found on this shore.'

Another sensation of warning flooded through Legolas, and for a brief moment he managed to meet the shaded, cunning eyes of the Gondorian before he turned away toward the wood.

...ooo...

An hour had passed and there was no sign of Frodo or Boromir. Talk was scarce and seemed always to come back to the same subject: the course of the Ring. The morning was growing late and the remaining companions were beginning to worry—Sam especially, with his master gone so long—though none were as anxious as Legolas. The Elf paced the shore, watching the east bank or staring into the trees of Parth Galen. He seemed distracted, almost frightened. Aragorn had never seen an Elf so agitated.

'_What worries you, Legolas?_' he asked in Elvish, so as not to alarm the others.

'_We should not have let him go alone, Aragorn. I fear that Frodo is in great danger._'

At this moment Boromir appeared from the trees. All conversation ceased as the Company stared at the man, whose fair proud face was now crumpled with grief and shame. Aragorn rose to his feet in alarm. 'Boromir, where have…what has happened?'

'I have failed you all,' murmured the Captain of Gondor, raising his head. 'I tried to take the Ring…and he disappeared.'

Sam leapt up with a cry. 'No! He must've put the Ring on!'

'What are we going to do?' Merry exclaimed. 'He's out there all alone!'

Legolas drew his bow and without another word dashed into the wood.

Boromir's eyes were glittering with tears as he bowed his head. 'Forgive my weakness…'

Aragorn grabbed the man's shoulder and pulled him away. 'Come on! We've no time to lose! We must find Frodo—stay with the hobbits and do not let them leave your sight!'

Merry and Pippin lit into the trees, calling Frodo's name in their clear hobbit voices, while Boromir composed himself once more and followed them. Aragorn and Sam took another direction while Gimli, axe drawn, pursued the trail of the Elf.

None of them was aware that within another hour their Fellowship would be torn apart by tragedy.

...ooo...

He raced through the forest, leaping over fallen trees and dodging stumps, fearlessly jumping streambeds like a deer, his heart beating more loudly than his footfalls. The Horn of Gondor sounded again, a deep trumpet that seemed to shake the very air. Legolas ran all the faster, legs stretching and arms pumping, fair hair and grey cloak flapping behind him, his world a blur of black and green. He ran among Orcs, who were drawn to the call for help and took no notice to the pale thin shadow that traveled in their midst. The Elf left them far behind as he flew through the forest, though he was still not fast enough to outrun the enemies ahead of him.

Legolas burst into the clearing in time to see Boromir stumble backwards, the first thick arrow embedded deeply into his chest. The Elf could not restrain his horror. 'No! Boromir—_no!_'

The man turned at the sound of the cry, and Legolas felt his heart recoil at the sight of those shadowless eyes, no longer proud and arrogant but grief-stricken and remorseful. An instant later Boromir swung his sword, killing an Uruk that dared to draw closer to the two hobbits he was protecting. _Defending the weak with his very life._

Every ounce of love that Legolas had hoarded in his heart exploded with violent, fiery passion. He grabbed his bow and notched an arrow. The huge ugly Uruk who had delivered Boromir's wound drew back his bow for a second shot. But Legolas was faster: an elven arrow struck the Uruk's side just as he let fly—the black arrow struck Boromir's sword arm, embedding into his bicep. The man dropped his blade and tumbled to his knees, giving no cry of pain. Legolas shouted in dismay and launched himself into the scene.

Orcs and Uruk-hai continued to pour through the trees, ignoring the battle in the clearing in order to pursue the rest of the Fellowship. Merry stuck his sword through an Orc just as another scooped him up. Pippin charged at the Orc and was seized by another. Boromir struggled to his feet and reached for his sword. Behind him the Uruk archer snarled and prepared to loose another arrow.

With a horrific scream Legolas threw himself at the fiend, sending the arrow whistling past Boromir's head and thumping into a tree. The Elf held on to the reeking black creature as it snarled and roared and tried to shake him off. Boromir stared in astonishment as Legolas battled the monstrous Uruk.

'The hobbits!' Legolas cried. 'Boromir, save the hobbits!'

But it was too late for Merry and Pippin, despite the efforts of their friends. They were already being borne away, but Boromir cut down every foul servant of Mordor in his path to get to them. In the end his wounds caused him to fall back, gasping for breath and bleeding profusely from the bites of enemy blades.

The big Uruk at last succeeded in throwing Legolas to the ground, placing his foot upon the Elf's chest and grinding him into the leaves. Legolas drew one of his daggers and thrust it into the beast's leg, grabbing the ankle as it lifted from his body, and pulling hard. The Uruk landed on his back, screaming with rage, clawing to get up. Legolas sprang to his feet and pulled out his second dagger, spinning them menacingly in his hands.

Elf and Uruk circled each other—then the creature sprang forward. Legolas dodged the attack but the Uruk grabbed his cloak and hauled him backwards, dropping a solid strike to the Elf's face with the hand that would be detached from his arm a second later.

Blood spangled the air. The Uruk's severed hand dropped to the ground. Legolas struck again, shallowly cutting his foe's throat. It put him too close to danger, however; the Uruk's good arm shot out and grabbed the Elf by the neck, drew him close and butted his head.

It was like being struck by a rock. Legolas stumbled backwards, senses reeling, and the Uruk gave him a mighty kick in the stomach. Legolas went sprawling head over heels, daggers flying from his hands. He came to a rest on his side, pale hair spread out over a carpet of damp brown leaves. He lifted himself slightly, enough to see the feet of his enemy approaching him. He was bleeding from his brow and nose, the pain sharp enough for him to feel fully. The clearing was growing quiet, and Legolas knew this creature meant to kill him.

Legolas drew his bow and used it to block the vicious scimitar that fell toward his neck. He pushed forth with all his might, deflecting the blow. Legolas punched the Uruk's grimy face and kicked him in the gut. But such tactics mattered little against this brute; he came back with full might, swiping his sword at the nimble Elf, forcing him back. Blood spurted from his foe's neck. Soon he will run dry, Legolas thought. I have only to stay alive until he does.

At the end of this thought Legolas felt something grip his ankle—a half-dead Uruk lying on the ground. The Elf kicked himself free, lost his balance and tried to right himself, but the sword of his enemy was coming toward him; he leaned back, narrowly missing the blade, and fell across the body beneath him. '_O Elbereth_,' Legolas prayed, '_I am dead_.'

The shining steel of a Gondorian sword whooped deeply as it sailed through the air and planted into the Uruk's middle. The creature's blade dropped from his hand and he fell backward, gurgling blood.

Legolas sat up and turned to see Boromir lower his arm, panting heavily. Then he slowly sank to his knees again, sighed once, and lay down to die.

Legolas scrambled up. '_Lau! Boromir!_' He stumbled gracelessly and left his bow lying where he dropped it. At Boromir's side he crouched, holding his hands uselessly above the man's wounded body. Blood mixed with dirt and sweat—pain and suffering and desperation. _What can be done? This cannot be undone._ Looking at the two arrows protruding grotesquely from his companion, Legolas felt cold, frightened and helpless. His first instinct was to wrench the curséd things from Boromir's body, but common sense told him that the man would surely bleed to death were the arrows to be dislodged. _What then, what then?_ The silence that had fallen in the twilight forest seemed to bring death as its company. Legolas felt it circling them both.

Boromir's grey-blue eyes fluttered open and his sleepy gaze rested upon the Elf's face. He smiled sadly, showing blood in his mouth. 'Legolas,' he whispered, 'forgive me. You were right not to…trust me.'

'Do not speak, my friend,' Legolas replied. 'Come, I will help you to stand.'

With much effort the slender Elf managed to draw the heavy man to his feet. 'Do not bother,' Boromir rasped as Legolas forced his arm about his shoulders. 'I have betrayed you all.'

'Can you walk? Walk with me, Boromir. Come-'

'They took the little ones-'

'We will get them back.'

'I have failed you…' Boromir swooned and toppled, dragging Legolas down with him.

'Get up, Boromir! Come on, you must try! Boromir, listen to me—you must get on your feet again. Do not fall asleep, Boromir! It is not too late for you-'

A wet gurgle nearby drew Legolas' attention. The Uruk over whose body he had tripped lay a yard or two away. Black blood ran between sharp yellow teeth as he smiled grotesquely. 'Too late…for man,' he growled in the Common Speech. 'In three days…the poison…' He died without finishing, yet Legolas knew what the foul creature had meant; it was not uncommon for Orcs to dip their arrowheads in poisons, and it seemed an only appropriate measure in this murderous band of fiends. And if the Uruk had not been lying…

Legolas stared down at Boromir's face. He had only three days to live.

Three days. And they were stranded in this awful place, days from any allies or medicine.

Suddenly Legolas heard voices calling out from the depths of the trees. He opened his mouth to answer but could draw forth no breath to shout. No matter—Aragorn followed the tracks of battle to the clearing where the Elf and man sat. When he saw the scene before him he cried out and ran to Legolas. 'O Elbereth,' he murmured, staring at Boromir's wounds. 'That he still lives in this condition is a miracle.'

'It will not be for long—these arrows are poisoned. He has but three days.'

'Three days! What became of Merry and Pippin?'

'Orcs. They were taken, Aragorn. Boromir tried to stop them but…'

Gimli arrived, panting slightly, his axe stained black from cleaving foes. 'What is this?' he shouted. 'Boromir has fallen! And Legolas, I cannot see you for the blood! What happened here?'

Legolas, mind numb from the shock, stood and gathered his bow and daggers from the ground. Aragorn and Gimli were talking hurriedly of what could be done to save Boromir's life, if it was not already beyond their efforts. The Elf looked down at the Uruk who carried Boromir's sword in his chest. I would have been dead, he thought, were it not for this. He grasped the hilt of the Gondorian sword and drew it out of the beast's foul flesh, wiping the blood on the leaves.

Guilt weighed heavily on Legolas' conscience as he held the heavy blade in his hand. Had I been less cold, he thought, perhaps I could have saved him. Had I listened to Gandalf's counsel from the beginning, he might not have fallen under the Ring's curse. Had I not shunned him, he would not by lying at Death's doorstep.

Legolas stared at the reflection of his bleeding face in the sword's steel.

Had I but loved him only a little…

'I have killed him,' he murmured, and Aragorn and Gimli looked up. 'I have killed the Captain of Gondor.' He drew in a deep breath and lifted his face to the thin light filtering through the tops of the trees. 'And since I helped delivered him to his doom, so shall I deliver him from it.'

Legolas strode to Boromir's side and carefully re-sheathed the man's sword. 'Help me carry him to the boats, Aragorn.'

'We cannot abandon Merry and Pippin,' he replied, but helped the Elf nonetheless.

'No,' Legolas agreed. 'We cannot.'

'But we cannot leave Boromir to die!' Gimli cried.

The Elf's eyes flashed boldly. 'He will not die, friend Gimli. Not if I can help it.'

...ooo...

With some difficulty they bore the unconscious Boromir to the shore. One of the boats was missing; Frodo and Sam had already reached the eastern bank, and were on their way to Mordor alone.

'This is madness,' Aragorn said. 'You cannot take him to Lothlórien.'

'It is the only place where there is remedy for the poison,' Legolas replied, easing Boromir into one of the grey elven boats.

'It took us ten days to come this far!' Aragorn cried. 'And you mean to paddle the whole way upstream in _three_?'

'Yes,' the Elf said, staring at his friend, 'I do.'

'Insanity!' Gimli shouted, though a note of mirth was in his voice. 'Never again shall I speak of the stubbornness of dwarves—not when an Elf is in my presence!'

Legolas grinned a little. 'Boromir is my burden now. It is up to you to find Merry and Pippin.'

'You are wounded,' Aragorn snapped. 'Let me take him.'

'You know as well as I that it cannot happen. None can track as well as you, Ranger—those two hobbits need your skill to find them.'

Aragorn gave a relenting sigh, knowing that the Elf spoke the truth; no one save Legolas was capable of making the journey back to Lórien. 'What can I do to help you?'

Legolas shoved the boat into the water and took up a paddle. 'Pray for us,' he said quietly, 'and hope.'

**To Be Continued...**


	2. Up the Great River

**Absence of Grace  
****Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
__Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

He fought the current as he paddled away from the Falls, glancing back only once to see his two companions vanish into the wood of the western shore. 'May both our journeys go swiftly towards a happy end,' Legolas murmured. 'Farewell Aragorn, Gimli. May this not be the last we see each other.'

He turned round and shoved his paddle into the water, moving steadily forward. At the bow lay Boromir, covered in a blanket, the arrows trimmed to prevent further pain and injury. His face was wan but not deathly—still there was hope for him. Even after all these misfortunes, Legolas thought. Stay with me, Boromir. Let us see the Golden Wood together once more.

The Elf paddled as hard as he could, never pausing to rest until the sun began to sink over the steep rocky hills of the western bank. Up ahead the sound of rushing water told him that they had come to Sarn Gebir. Luck had favored them—they had covered much distance since departing Amon Hen. But Legolas held no hope of making his way up the rapids, not by boat. There would be no other way to pass than the way they had come: on foot. He would carry the boat first, he decided, and then carry Boromir.

Legolas eased the boat to the shore and, using much of his strength, hauled Boromir from the bow. The man awoke from the pain of being moved, though he stifled his groans of agony. 'Aragorn…'

'Legolas,' said the Elf. 'Do not move.'

'The hobbits…they took the hobbits-'

'Aragorn and Gimli will get them back. Be still now.' Legolas cradled the man in his lap. 'Open your eyes, Boromir. Look at me.'

Granite blue eyes opened slowly and lifted to the Elf's fair face, still stained with blood and dirt. A faint smile curved Boromir's lips. 'Legolas…' he whispered, then an expression of pain stole all warmth from his face. 'You are injured.'

'I fought the Orc that shot you. I would have fallen were it not for your sword, Boromir. Do you not remember?'

The man closed his eyes and said nothing—he had fallen once more into a senseless state. Legolas gently laid him upon the grass and hauled the boat ashore. It would not be easy to carry it by himself through the darkening forest, but he had no other choice. Making certain that Boromir's body was hidden from sight, the Elf lifted the boat upon his shoulders—quite light it was, though cumbersome—and made his way through forest past Sarn Gebir. Behind him, Boromir held the Lórien broach of Legolas' cloak as a token that he would return, should the man wake to find himself alone in the dark.

...ooo...

By the time Legolas returned for Boromir the moon was already at its zenith, the night passing swiftly. It was a far greater burden to bear the man upon his back than it had been the elven boat, though Legolas complained not. Boromir was tall, doughty and thick—nearly twice the Elf's weight when dressed as he was, in chain mail and heavy tunic—and Legolas dragged him more than carried him. Halfway through their journey the pressure on the arrows roused Boromir from unconsciousness into a world of excruciating misery.

'S-stop,' he gasped. 'I cannot…!'

Legolas halted and helped the man to kneel. The wood was silent and black around them. 'Here,' he bade, producing his water-skin, 'drink.'

The water seemed to revive Boromir's senses, though it only made the pain that much sharper. 'I can go no further,' he muttered. 'I must…stay here...'

'There is no time. Come, Boromir, stand.'

'Leave me, Legolas. I am doomed.'

'Never!' He gritted his teeth. 'On your feet, Captain!' The Elf hauled Boromir to his feet and held him steady. With one hand Legolas untied the leather gauntlet on his right wrist, and held it to the man's mouth. 'Bite hard when you feel the pain taking you,' he said, 'and walk with me.'

Boromir's eyes did not see in the dark as well as Legolas', and much time was spent stumbling over rock and root and pulling the man to his feet once more. The moon had nearly set by the time they made it to the shore upstream from the rapids. Legolas lowered Boromir into the boat and shoved off, paddling strenuously against the current.

'Where are you taking me?' Boromir whispered.

'To Lothlórien. There your wounds will be healed.'

The man slumped down in the bow, half delirious with pain. 'I shall die before then, Legolas. Give in. Leave me-'

'I already did that once before—do not ask me to do it again.'

For a while silence fell between them. Then Boromir asked softly, 'Why are you doing this?'

'Because,' said Legolas, 'had I loved you better this would never have happened.'

...ooo...

Dawn broke over a hazy sky of red, the sun glowing shallowly from behind the wooded hills, muted by the mist. Already Legolas felt his arms beginning to fatigue, but each time his pace slowed his eyes fell upon Boromir, laying at the bow and growing paler with each passing hour, and the Elf summoned his strength anew. He would not fail Boromir, not at this late hour, not while there was still life in the both of them.

The day wore on. Time and shore passed slowly, becoming grey and stony. Legolas ignored the growing burn in his arms and back, though by midday it had become unbearable. He would be no use to Boromir if he collapsed from exhaustion—he had to rest.

He found a small shaded cove on the western shore and moored the boat on its bleak bank. The water came to his thighs as he disembarked and waded ashore to pull Boromir from the bow. Moving the heavy man quickly siphoned Legolas' remaining strength, and he tumbled into a sitting position, breathing heavily as Boromir lay against him. Every muscle in the Elf's body ached and stung, and all he wanted to do was lay down in a dark quiet place for a few hours.

But Boromir had not the luxury of time.

Legolas drank from his water-skin and ate a bit of lembas, then realized that Boromir had had nothing to eat since yesterday morning. He gazed down at the man, now drifting in the merciful realm of unconsciousness. Lifting Boromir's head carefully, Legolas poured a little bit of water down his throat, and some on his face to wash the dirt away. He chewed a small mouthful of lembas and leaned down, pressing his lips to Boromir's and pushing the food into his mouth with his tongue. He drew away and gently massaged the man's throat until eventually the lembas was swallowed. Legolas did this a few more times, and poured more water into Boromir's mouth. Already he seems to look better, Legolas thought, brushing a few strands of auburn-gold hair from the man's face.

'I wish it had been I to receive these,' he murmured, gazing down at the arrow tips festering in Boromir's chest and arm. 'Had our places been switched your energy would not be failing you…but for all my skills and immortality I have not your strength, Boromir. The thing which I need most I have not…'

Legolas bowed down and placed his crown to Boromir's, weeping softly, shoulders shaking. 'Please…do not leave me here alone.'

...ooo...

Evening of the second day was upon them as they at last came to Emyn Muil, the grey hill country. Legolas scarcely reckoned it, exhausted as he was. The pain in his body he felt growing steadily, sharper and clearer than anything he had felt before in his long years of life. The elven grace he had inherited at his birth—resistance to pain and cold and natural death—was offering him neither aid nor comfort in this grim hour. His head began to reel as the night drew on and they traveled through darkness, limbs weary and mind taxed by guilt and grief. But I must press forth, he thought to himself. I cannot fail. There are many miles yet to go ere I can rest. I must press forth. I must, I must.

Soon these thoughts began to mix with prayers that aligned to the rhythm of his paddle's stroke. _Elbereth Gilthoniel, I must press forth, I cannot fail…_

Throughout the night tears regularly found their way down the Elf's dirt-smudged face, creating fresh trails of white. Legolas' heart was strong but his body was failing him; yet he was determined to continue his journey until its end, or until his heart or his body quit him. He wept for his pain, for his helplessness, his weakness, but most of all for Boromir. The man had come full circle, had realized his err and tried to amend it at the expense of his own life—and he did not deserve to die like this. Not now. There had been good in him, Legolas saw it clearly now. But I had not seen it when it truly mattered, he thought miserably. I was blinded by my own distrust, by my resentment for his kind, and thought myself greater than he. What cruelness Fate has delivered me I surely deserve it for my pride. O Boromir, Gondor's Captain! Lend me your strength! I would give anything you desired in turn.

The carved leaf paddle thrust into the water—one stroke closer to Lothlórien.

...ooo...

Morning came gently, timidly, perhaps aware that at the close of this final day the fate of two souls would be decided. The Elf paddled weakly but steadily, his eyes set upon the wide path of water that lay before him. His mind was wandering elsewhere, anywhere that was far from the immediate torture of his flesh.

Each hour was an eternity of agony for the both of them; pain woke Boromir intermittently, and what little time he spent conscious was marked by soft apologies to his father, conversations with his mother, and pleas for death. A brief moment of clarity came to him before midday, during which Boromir pulled himself up and looked across the narrow boat at Legolas, driving himself ever forward against the strong current of the Anduin. 'Give up,' he whispered, 'go on without me. Give me peace—I would rather die than live in this world of pain.'

'And I would rather die than to see you leave it,' the Elf answered.

Boromir sank limply against the gunwale, feverish and disoriented. 'You are killing yourself. Do not…die for my sake…Legolas.' And then he closed his eyes and said nothing further.

...ooo...

The Brown Lands had given way to a thin bare forest as the sun was beginning to sink low in the western sky. Still Legolas paddled on, though his strokes were weak and shallow. His head nodded and his breath came in ragged gasps; his clothes were stained with sweat, and dried blood was smeared across his face. His wounds stung and his arms shook from strain, and he felt as if a dozen knives had embedded themselves in his spine. He had begun to fall into half-faints, each time the interval between one and the next growing shorter. Perhaps the only thing that prevented Legolas from dropping his paddle into the river and following it over the side was the image of a happy ending to all of this misery.

In his mind's eye he saw their boat pulling to the shore of the Golden Wood, the Lórien Elves greeting them warmly. They would take Boromir away and tend to his wounds, and Legolas would be bathed and dressed in clean clothes, and at last he would be able to rest, safe at last in Lóthlorien. And then he would wake, and Boromir would be well again. They would reconcile their differences, admit each their wrongs, and turn over a new leaf. Boromir would smile again and laugh, they would be friends thenceforth, and Legolas' heart would be healed. Never again would he be quick to judge Men, and the coldness that Boromir once felt for the Elves will have disappeared. They would be allies as they should have been in the beginning, comrades and brothers in arms; they would journey from Lóthlorien and be reunited with Aragorn and Gimli, Merry and Pippin, Frodo and Sam. Together they would raise the fortress of Barad-dûr, destroy the Ring, and defeat Sauron once and for all. And peace would be upon Middle Earth, the dawn of a new age. Legolas would return to his home—to beautiful Greenwood, the vast forest of the North—and his father King Thranduil would shed tears of joy to see his only son returned from war. And finally Legolas would be able to travel as he had always dreamed of doing, to see the wonders of Middle Earth ere they disappeared forever and were forgotten. His people would leave and so Legolas would follow them, but not before he saw what he was leaving behind, in the fullest, brightest memory that he would carry until the very end of-

An arrow struck into the side of the boat with a mighty _thock_, and Legolas snapped to attention. Night was beginning to fall. A burst of heinous laughter echoed across the water from the eastern shore, and in the dim light the Elf perceived a troop of Orcs clambering from the trees. He paddled swiftly and ran the boat ashore on the opposite bank, and dropped his paddle to take up his bow.

The Orcs howled and cackled evilly. 'What ails ye, O fair lord?' they called. 'Yer pretty face bleeds like a cunt!' A burst of raucous laughter followed but was cut short when an elven arrow struck the Orc leader in the throat. He fell backward with a hiss and the others began to screech in anger.

Legolas slowly notched another arrow. His arms were visibly trembling, too weakened by his three-day struggle to save Boromir. An ambush was the last thing he needed—it was still a few more miles to Lóthlorien and he had no time to waste. He drew back his hand and hoped that this time he wouldn't miss his mark, like he had the first time.

'It's him! It's the curséd Elf!' the Orcs screamed. 'He shot the Nazgûl's mount! Kill him!'

With a chorus of snarls and roars the Orcs forded the river, swords raised and arrows flying. Legolas ducked as an arrow flew over his head, and loosed one of his own, hitting one of the wading Orcs in the shoulder. His eyes were beginning to blur, his head to swim. Why, O why were his senses failing him now! He drew another arrow and stumbled, but let fly—it took out the Orc nearest him. Arrows landed in the side of the boat, and for one horrible moment Legolas feared Boromir to be struck again by the poisoned projectiles. He leapt into the water, blocking Boromir from harm.

He drew arrows as fast as his trembling hands would allow, but still the Orcs poured forth from the black woods. There were far too many of them for him to slay with arrows alone, and if it came to hand-to-hand combat Legolas knew that his abilities would be severely impaired by his weakness. It seemed suddenly hopeless, useless, to fight against these odds. He was but one weary Elf, set against dozens of foes…it was not supposed to end this way. Not like this.

As if proof of the inevitable, a black arrow thudded deep into Legolas' right shoulder, sending him crashing down into the boat. He felt his muscles clench tightly around the arrow, swelling painfully. It burned like fire—all fires, every flame on earth. Never had he felt pain to this extent, not in all his centuries. Legolas clenched his teeth until they ached but in the end it could not stifle his scream of pain. Breathing heavily he stood to his feet, and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Just as he was aiming it at the archer who shot him, another black arrow embedded into his thigh.

He let out a scream and fell backward into the shallow water. Grunts and growls reached his ears, and when he opened his eyes five hideous Orcs were standing before him, grinning wickedly and drooling through their sharp teeth. 'Poor lit'le Elf,' one mocked, 'think that hurts, do yer? Well let's see what _real_ pain does to-'

A long Lórien arrow slammed into the Orc's chest, causing him to sail backwards into the water with a splash. Another arrow and another found their marks in the fiends standing over Legolas, and soon volleys of arrows were felling the Orcs in the river one by one. The creatures began to shriek and call for retreat, clawing their way back to the eastern shore. From the shadows of the western bank leapt a host of Elves, and their leader Haldir called, '_Leave none alive! Gurth _'_ni yrch!_'

Legolas closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pebbles. The Marchwarden was here. Boromir was saved. Everything was right…

Darkness took Legolas for a few moments. He awoke as his body was lifted from the muddy water and laid onto a woven stretcher. He felt warm fingers upon his face and he opened his eyes to see Haldir gazing down at him worriedly. '_You have suffered_,' he murmured. '_Hold on, Legolas. We will bear you to Lóthlorien_.'

Legolas very nearly allowed himself to sink back into darkness, but with a sudden rush he rose up and grasped Haldir by the cloak. '_Boromir_,' he begged, '_save Boromir. The arrows have been poisoning him…do not let him die!_'

'_He has been gathered_,' Haldir replied calmly, placing his hands over Legolas', '_though he may be beyond our aid. We will do for him what we can. Rest now, Legolas. You have come too close to death._'

The weary Elf closed his eyes, and silver tears rolled down his bloodstained cheeks. 'Please…do not let him die.' He returned to darkness once more, and the Lórien Elves gently bore him to Caras Galadhon.

**To Be Continued...**


	3. The Unwilling Bond

**Absence of Grace  
****Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
__Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

The Marchwarden of Lothlórien stood high in a flet, his watch-post, and stared keenly through the darkness, daring any other creatures of Mordor to show their ugly faces in his wood. After what they had done to Thranduil's son, Haldir thought, they deserved nothing but slaughter. He sighed lightly, brow creased with discomfort as the echoes of the prince's screams still rang in his ears. Even Celeborn's most potent poultices had failed to bring relief when the healers had commenced cutting the arrows from Legolas' body. The barbed arrowheads of the Orcs were unforgiving, and the Elf's groans of agony were horrible to witness—Haldir could only imagine the pain he felt. Mercifully he had swooned and the healers were able to work more quickly, staunching the blood flow from his leg and binding his wounds. He was then bathed and wrapped tightly in blankets. '_He is cold_,' one of the healers told Haldir. '_His warmth has left him. It is almost as if he were fading away_.' But Haldir knew better. Legolas was too strong to die. But Boromir on the other hand…

The man was so far gone that the healers had little trouble tending to him. The festering punctures in his chest and arm were thrice cleansed and bound with medicine and gauze, though he remained trapped in the realm of sleeping death. Galadriel had been to visit him once, and laid her long white hand upon his forehead, calling to him gently in his mind, reassuring him that safety and companions awaited him on this side of the waking world. Still he slept, and the Elves began to feel their help had arrived too late.

Faint footfalls reached Haldir's ears, and he turned to see his brother Rumil appear through the floor of the flet. '_The second watch had ended_,' he said. '_I will take your place here, gwanur_.'

Haldir nodded. '_Very_ _well. Have you heard any news of Legolas?_'

'_He has woken at last_,' Rumil replied lightly, '_though he remains weak and drowsy, and his wounds pain him. He asks after the Man_.'

'_And what is his condition?_'

'_He has not yet come to._' Rumil stood beside his brother and gazed through the mallorns. '_I haven't the heart to admit that Legolas' efforts have been for nought, yet I fear it so. And I fear still greater the outcome if Boromir passes_.'

'_Do you suspect Legolas will succumb to grief?_'

'_I know not_,' Rumil murmured. '_It would be remarkable if an Elf died grieving over a Mortal_.'

'_But not impossible_,' Haldir added solemnly.

'_Yes_,' said Rumil. '_I hope it is not so._'

...ooo...

Legolas slept with his eyes closed, bruised curtains of lavender over jewel-blue irises, his pale golden hair draping in thick tendrils across his pillow. He bore a deep scratch across his right cheekbone and a large cut at his left brow, the latter covered by a bloodstained strip of cloth that went round his crown. He breathed slowly and evenly, slumbering deeply. His shoulder was bound and wrapped, as was his thigh, though blankets covered most of his body; the healers worried for his coldness and had given him extra bedding. He lay now on a cot in a large flet, a quiet place for healing, and slept without dreaming.

Lord Celeborn sat in a chair nearby, an immortal glow illuminating his fair skin, his silver robes pooled at his bare feet and a vague expression of unease darkening his otherwise handsome face. He gazed at Legolas and yet seemed to gaze through him, at something beyond the reach of all eyes. The Lord of Lothlórien appeared serenely troubled, yet peaceful in spite of what did not agree in his mind—the epitome of immortal wisdom. This was how he seemed to Haldir as the Marchwarden appeared from the stairwell and stepped onto the flet.

'_Pardon, my Lord_,' he apologized, bowing slightly. '_I had not expected you here_.' His eyes fell to the wounded Elf. '_How is he faring?_'

'_He will live_,' Celeborn murmured, rising slowly from his seat, '_but the life which awaits him…_' He trailed off—a sign of foreboding that caused Haldir's heart to skip—and turned to leave. As he passed Celeborn paused to say, '_He will wake soon. It would be best if someone were here to answer his questions_.'

Haldir nodded. '_Mae, my Lord_.' Celeborn disappeared down the stairs and Haldir sat in the chair beside Legolas' cot. He stared at the young Elf—young only by comparison—and tried to find meaning in his lord's words: the life which awaits him…

Legolas stirred and slowly opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon Haldir and he made an effort to sit up, grimacing at the pain he had awoken to. '_Haldir_,' he greeted, bowing his head in respect. '_It seems I have found myself again indebted to you_.'

'_Consider that debt repaid_,' the Marchwarden said with a slight smile. '_You have survived, so nothing was in vain._' Sympathy shone in his eyes as he asked, '_How are you feeling?_'

'_Horrible_,' Legolas admitted, drawing back the covers and gingerly sliding his legs over the edge of the cot. He wore only a long plain tunic of grey. '_Though I was far worse before the rescue._ _I…can hardly remember the events of the past three days_.'

'_That is not surprising—you almost killed yourself with exhaustion. I did not think it possible for a laden boat to journey ten days in three days' time. Some force must have lent you great swiftness_.'

Legolas turned his eyes to the floor. '_I could not fail him again_,' he said softly. '_Not after I had already done so_.'

Haldir sighed shortly. '_Legolas. What happened to Boromir is no fault of your own. You must understand that_.'

'_I do understand. I am just not certain I believe it_.'

'_Your guilt over the Man was almost your undoing_.'

'_Is it so wrong to feel remorse?_'

'_Only if brought unnecessarily upon oneself_.' Haldir paused, staring sharply at the Mirkwood prince. '_Legolas. Grief and regret will not undo what has been done, and it will not heal Boromir's wounds. Despairing only deepens the darkness in your heart_.' He reached out and placed a comforting hand on Legolas' knee. '_Now is the time to hope and have faith. Surely would Boromir appreciate those virtues in the stead of your pardons_.'

Legolas nodded slowly, eyes still wandering the floor. '_He has not yet woken, has he?_'

It saddened Haldir to reply that the man had not. Legolas lifted his head, and his eyes shone bright with determination.

'_I would like to see him_.'

...ooo...

Legolas, a robe draped over his shoulders and holding steadily onto Haldir's arm, limped noiselessly down from the flet to the soft grassy ground. '_He is being tended to in one of the lower infirmaries_,' Haldir explained, then his attention was drawn to Legolas' tight expression. '_Does your leg pain you much?_'

Legolas had to cease gritting his teeth to reply. '_Yes_,' he stammered, '_but I can bear it_.'

Haldir looked at Legolas for a moment in wonder. '_You must care deeply for Boromir to endure so much misery on his behalf_.'

Though Legolas was irritated by the warden's insinuation, he did not show his anger. '_He would have done the same for me, as a true soldier of Gondor. I would gladly lay my life on his loyalty_.'

They came to a giant mallorn, hollowed out at its base to form a sheltered bower, and illuminated by the soft blue glow of moss and crystals. On a narrow bed inside lay Boromir, bare from the waist up, his left arm and shoulder bound tightly with gauze. He seemed only to be sleeping, and upon seeing him Legolas released Haldir's arm and walked unassisted to the man's bedside. With some discomfort he knelt down and gazed at Boromir wordlessly.

Haldir remained where he was, feeling that perhaps he would be intruding on an intimate moment about which he knew nothing. For he had not been in that boat those three long days. He had not been forced to witness his comrade's life slowly seeping out of him, hour by hour. He had not endured the physical duress of attempting to accomplish the impossible. Yet Legolas had done all of that. He and the Man had shed tears and blood and pain in each other's company. Duty, love or sharing a common hatred may bring people together—but suffering alongside one another forms a far more unbreakable bond. Haldir knew now, whether Boromir lived beyond this day or not, that Legolas would carry him in his heart until it ceased to beat. It alarmed the Marchwarden to find such rare virtue existing between two beings of unlike mortality. Their ending, when it came, would be heart-wrenching.

'_Legolas_,' Haldir said softly, and the Elf turned his head to regard him, a mournful expression on his wounded face. '_Forgive me if I have said anything to offend you. I had not realized the depth of your commitment._'

Legolas nodded slightly, then his eyes drifted over Haldir's shoulder and widened. '_My Lady_,' he murmured, bowing his head.

Haldir turned to behold Lady Galadriel approaching them silently, her long white robes trailing on the grass. Like Celeborn her body shone with an immortal glow, soft and purer than starlight. The warden bowed low and stepped aside so that she might enter the bower. She smiled kindly at her servant and Legolas, but sadness was apparent in her clear blue eyes, and a note of mourn played itself in her rich melodious voice: '_Boromir has passed into the realm of twilight_,' she murmured, stepping close to gaze down at the son of Gondor. '_No magic or medicine could pass through the darkness where he now sleeps_.' She paused. '_Goheno nin, Legolas_.'

Haldir took a step forward, his heart crying for Legolas' loss. He opened his mouth to speak but could find no words to offer solace. He turned away, unable to bear the sight of the woodland prince's shocked, dismayed expression.

'_Is there nothing I can do?_' he asked desperately, rising to his feet. '_Am I to sit idly by and watch a second comrade of our Fellowship perish?_'

'_Dear Prince_,' Galadriel spoke, '_I said nothing of Boromir perishing. He is waiting to be woken by the one to whom he is bound_.'

Legolas took a step back, his heart pounding and eyes wide with alarm.

'_The Valar blessed the elves with immortality_,' the Lady said softly, '_and still blessed them with the choice to relinquish it_.'

'_No_,' Legolas breathed, his face without color. Haldir stood by in utter astonishment, unable to believe this most terrible event had possessed itself of one of his own kind.

'_When you arrived in Lothlórien I knew what had passed, though I know not how it came to be…but the grace with which you were born has left you, Legolas son of Thranduil, and now it is the only thing that is keeping Boromir son of Denethor from death_.'

Legolas blinked, and silver tears spilled down his cheeks, running into the red cut still marring his cheek.

'_Take up his hand, Legolas_,' Lady Galadriel said, '_and call him back to this world_. _Only you have the power to wake him now_.'

**To Be Continued...**


	4. The Míthril Ring

**Absence of Grace**  
**Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
__Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

He drifted peacefully in the dark, removed from pain and sorrow, senseless in this merciful void of nothingness. No sound or sight or smell or thought came to him; all was quiet and tranquil. Then the darkness began to lift, the world grew cold and mean around him, and he heard the echoes of a voice calling him back. The light became harsh and pain seized him, attempting to pull him again into the place where lack of feeling righted all wrongs. The temptation to give in to the powerful emptiness was strong, yet the voice that beckoned him was warm and familiar, full of color, and he felt that he must follow it. He went forward and pain cut into his body, yet his desire to obey the voice overwhelmed all physical discomfort. Flashes of memory began to pierce into his mind like thorns: a glimpse of grotesque faces, blood on leather, water and wood, a shadow in the grey sky that commanded him to die. It was ultimately this horror and shock, and the need to escape it, which brought Boromir back to his senses.

Steel blue eyes fluttered open and then widened as they focused upon the glowing visage before him. The image sharpened slowly, and Boromir beheld a fair elven face close his own, its blue eyes dark with emotion and shining wetly. Glistening trails on the pale skin spoke of tears that had fallen. For a moment the man could not recall a name or association, yet he knew that this was the owner of the voice that had awoken him, and despite the terrible ache in every fiber of his mortal frame, a fierce love swelled in his heart for this poor beautiful weeping creature.

'What are these tears?' he spoke in a hoarse whisper, reaching out with his uninjured arm. Rough fingers brushed against unfathomably soft skin, hesitating when they came to a long red cut. 'Was this my doing?'

With grief crumpling his expression, Legolas shied away from Boromir's hand and stumbled to his feet. Haldir stepped forward to assist him but Legolas evaded the warden's reach.

With a wincing face the man sat upright, surprised to see his Elf limp from the bower and into the dark trees beyond. Boromir turned to behold Haldir, and said with childlike sadness, 'Why…why has he gone?'

At first Haldir, thinking only of Legolas' loss and the shortcomings of Men, desired to tell Boromir all that had transgressed. He wished to word the events so harshly that it would cause the man to recoil. He wished to tell this short-lived, insignificant mortal the gift that had unwittingly been bestowed upon him, the gift that was responsible for saving his already half-spent life. For an Elf—a woodland _prince_—to relinquish his immortal grace to one so unworthy, one to whom he owed nothing so precious-! It made Haldir's blood boil with animosity. Yet the wisdom that lent him anger over this injustice also soothed his temper. It was not his right to tell Boromir what had taken place; that duty did not belong to him. But the man nonetheless deserved an explanation.

'He is troubled by his wounds,' Haldir said gently in the Common Speech, looking in the direction of the departed Elf. 'Three days ago you were felled by Orc arrows, poisoned and brought upon the brink of death. It was Legolas alone who volunteered to save you. He claimed responsibility for your injuries—for his coldness and distrust of your race—and he paddled the many leagues back to Lothlórien so that you might receive healing.

'Your boat was attacked by Orcs on the borders of our wood, though our forces were able to drive them back and bear you hence. Legolas was twice shot during the skirmish, but the journey itself was nearly his ruin.' The Marchwarden gave Boromir a hard glance. 'You are heavily in his debt, Son of Gondor.'

Boromir appeared stunned for several long moments, his eyes darting back and forth as his mind slowly caught up with the present. He remembered Amon Hen, indeed he could never forget it, and he remembered the vision of Legolas, battered and bleeding, upon the back of that terrible Orc. He remembered the sound of water, the feeling of its blessed coolness pouring down his parched throat. He remembered a steady, constant face above his own, pleading for him to stay. He remembered the warmth of elven tears falling upon his brow…

Boromir drew back his blankets and made as if to stand. 'I must see him at once,' he stated.

Haldir had to dart forward and grasp the man by the shoulders to prevent him from rising. 'He is not well, Boromir, and neither are you. Rest is what you both require, not each other's company.'

'Then I refuse to rest until I have spoken with Legolas.'

'Obstinate Man!' Haldir said brusquely, his patience waning. 'If you resist our efforts to aid you, then you shall grow weak and perish, and the Prince's sacrifice will have been for naught!'

Boromir immediately went slack. 'Prince? Surely you do not mean Legolas.'

'Of whom else could I be speaking?' Haldir retorted. 'I should have guessed you would be ignorant of this fact. Legolas feared he would be treated specially were his lineage brought to attention within the Fellowship. He planned to conceal it for as long as possible.'

Boromir remained shocked. 'Then his father…'

'Is Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Mirkwood—our northern brethren.' Haldir drew away from the man and stood straight. 'I must now leave you to the care of our healers. For your sake, and the sake of Legolas, rest and recover your strength. The Lady informed me that you will be attended to, and should our foreign tongue baffle you, I offer my assistance when convenience permits.' Haldir bowed slightly before turning and striding from the bower, his grey cloak drifting behind him.

Boromir sank back into his bed, his mind far from his own pain. Legolas—Prince Legolas, he reminded himself—had nearly perished while attempting to rescue a man whose acts of betrayal should have justified leaving him for dead. Fool! What madness had possessed the Elf to undertake such a task? Why deny a warrior a warrior's death? Rather would Boromir have fallen at the feet of his foes than to waste away in the care of his allies; yet he knew that the latter was folly. He would live now, thanks to his fair friend.

But was Legolas truly his friend? Had they nothing more than tolerated each other's presence, united only by their common goal? Were they not simply acquaintances?

Boromir closed his eyes and sighed heavily, which brought pain to his chest. You should have left me for dead, Legolas, he thought morosely. It is better than I deserve. What voice in your heart commanded you to save me? Did you do it out of guilt, out of pity? Or if you did it for love, what reason then provoked the tears of regret I saw in your eyes?

With questions gently lulling his mind into torpor, Boromir fell into a light slumber.

...ooo...

One day and two nights passed ere the man was deemed well enough to leave the place of healing; he received a temporary flet for the remainder of his stay in Lothlórien. His first act upon being dismissed from elven care, however, was to find Legolas. Little did the man know that the Elf was never far from his bower, visiting in times when Boromir's sleep made observation an easy feat. Certainly was Legolas drawn to the man, who now unknowingly possessed his most precious gift. Like the wretched mother who leaves her newborn upon the king's doorstep, Legolas wished to see what became of his virtue—to see if it was cast into the gutter or welcomed into the king's heart. Such thoughts turned his mind to Aragorn, and the other members of the Fellowship. Legolas decided that if they ever again met, he would speak nothing of his mortality.

Mortality…

Legolas was frightened, _terrified_, at the mere thought of the rest of his days, though his spirit remained curiously unaffected. The same old itch of adventure crawled beneath his skin and tickled him the same as it had done in his younger years. He grew restless, eager to set out again and rejoin with his separated comrades. That was why he let himself be found so easily the day that Boromir was released from the infirmary, yet the moment he saw the man walking toward him all excitement of continuing the quest abruptly dissipated. And for perhaps the first time in his life, Legolas began to quiver—not with fear, but with something he could not yet describe.

The Elf rose to his feet, and they both stopped short a few paces from one another. Neither said a word, amazed by the other's presence, such a reunion unexpected in the frail hope days passed. Boromir hesitated awkwardly, though a handsome smile was growing on his face, which was now softer and kinder than Legolas ever remembered seeing it. He had changed since Amon Hen, apparently for the better. 'I have missed you,' he said gently. 'Why did you not come to me before?'

'I did,' Legolas replied. 'But I did not wish to disturb your rest.' He paused and blinked, surprised by a detail he had not before noticed. 'You are dressed as one of our own,' he said, gesturing to the tunic, mantle and boots of Lórien grey in which Boromir was clad.

'The Elves are kind enough to wash and mend my own clothes,' he answered with a touch of humor in his voice. 'Until we set out again I shall dress as one of them.'

Legolas felt like grinning. 'Never would I have imagined a soldier to so readily abandon his flag to the wash-tub.'

'Easily done if your flag is as filthy as mine. In any case, I find these Lothlórien garments comfortable and light. It is little wonder you Elves are so swift on your feet.'

Legolas inclined his head at the compliment.

Boromir stepped forward, the smile fading from his face. A nervous mood took hold of him. 'Legolas. I fear you have burdened me with a debt I can never hope to repay.'

The Elf's heart froze with fear—did he know?

'On one hand I could scold you for so foolishly risking your life on my behalf, and yet…' Grey-blue eyes filled deep with gratitude. 'Yet I thank you for giving me the opportunity to see my brother and father once again, for giving me a second chance—a chance to redeem myself—and to continue my part in this fight.' He took Legolas' hand in his own and, raising it, pressed a kiss to the pale skin. His beard tickled the Elf, yet when the man lifted his eyes Legolas felt no desire to laugh. 'I shall never forget your sacrifice, my friend. If I must forsake all memories save one when I pass into the halls of my fathers, it shall be of you.'

It was almost too much for Legolas to withstand. A fresh spring of tears welled in his eyes and his expression twisted in his effort to withhold them. So his grace had been well-received, perhaps even deserving of this man. Legolas knew not if Boromir were speaking words to be forgotten after this day—only time would tell—but hope fluttered in the Elf's heart: hope that his immortality had been spent, however unwillingly, on a worthy cause. 'I thank you for your gratitude…_mellon_.'

Boromir's comprehension of the elven tongue was terribly limited, yet a few words were familiar to him, and he recognized Legolas' with a grateful smile. The Elf returned it. Neither seemed to realize that they had yet to release their hands from each other's grasp, thus they were startled when one of the Lórien elves approached them from across the green lawn. '_Pardon my interruption_,' he said, '_but Lord Celeborn requests your presence_.'

'_Then he shall have it_. _Thank you for the message_,' Legolas answered politely, then turned to Boromir. 'Lord Celeborn wishes to see us.'

Boromir nodded curtly, a hint of his former roughness shining through. 'Very good. I hope he is planning to release us—I grow restless lingering in this place, however beautiful it is.'

Legolas smiled to himself, silently agreeing.

...ooo...

'You have both appeared to heal well,' the graceful Elf-Lord noted with approval. 'That is good news.' Before him stood Boromir and Legolas in the high flet of the lord's dwelling. Boromir fidgeted nervously, but his companion had not lost any of his peaceful composure.

'Our bodies are wont to heal in this fair wood,' Legolas said, stepping forward respectfully. 'The generosity of our Lord and Lady are dearly appreciated, for without them our paths would have ended in darkness.'

Celeborn smiled knowingly. 'Your gratitude is welcome, Legolas, yet the greatest sacrifice of all was not made by the Lady Galadriel or I.' His voice fell to a whisper unheard by all others save Legolas. 'You have traded one grace for another, young prince. For that, your courage is commended.'

Legolas swallowed a lump in his throat and bowed his head. If only Lord Celeborn were aware of how accidental that courage was—would he still speak so highly of him? Legolas felt himself nothing more than a victim of coincidence, a reluctant savior. One should not praise a fool, nor should they praise a hero who saves another only to ease his own guilt. Legolas was so ashamed of himself that he could not bear to raise his eyes from the floor.

Boromir, troubled by this last exchange, summoned his voice and asked, 'Why have you called us here, Lord Celeborn?'

Legolas winced at the awkward force of the man's question, but Celeborn at least pretended not to notice. 'Of late has the attention towards the eastern shadow been focused,' he replied, 'but Mordor's forces extend far beyond its borders. Isengard's army continues to grow, and the land of Rohan will soon feel its sting. To compound matters, Orc troops mass at Dol Guldur, and our woodland brethren are falling under threat.'

Boromir heard Legolas breathe in sharply, and when he beheld the Elf his face was unnaturally pale. 'Legolas? What…'

'Dol Guldur,' Legolas murmured, 'sits in the great northern forest. Mirkwood is its name.'

Boromir's eyes widened. 'That is your home.'

'I fear for its safety,' Lord Celeborn continued, staring hard at the two survivors. 'Too long have the forces of darkness terrorized its denizens, and the reign of evil must be ended soon ere all chance of regaining the forest stronghold is lost. Should evil conquer Mirkwood, its trees shall burn and the luckiest of its people shall be left destitute. Then that wickedness, and all its festering rancor, shall spread to Lothlórien.'

Legolas' eyes shined brightly. 'What could I do, my lord?'

Celeborn shook his head. 'Nay, I would not have you risk yourself so freely, Legolas. Any task you choose to undertake is bound to your will alone.'

It was to the surprise of both elves when Boromir stepped forth and said, 'Then let us hear your proposal, Lord Celeborn. The strength of Gondor shall accompany this Elf, wherever his path may lead him.'

The Elf-Lord's eyebrows lifted with pleasant surprise while Legolas turned to regard Boromir with awe. 'I see,' said Celeborn. 'Then my proposal is this: bring word to King Thranduil that the Lórien forces are preparing to lay siege upon Dol Guldur. Gather the woodland army and ready them at the forest mountains.'

Both Boromir and Legolas could not conceal their shock. 'A siege!' Legolas cried. 'But such an action could incite the Dark Lord's forces to all-out war!'

'And the soldiers of Gondor are too few to withstand a direct assault,' Boromir added, equally concerned.

'Yes,' Celeborn nodded, 'that is true. But you fail to realize how little time remains before Mordor's fury is unleashed upon Middle-Earth. Now we must act without hesitation—it is too late to delay any further.

'Boromir, do not fear for your people. Upon gathering the Mirkwood warriors at the mountains, you and Legolas shall bring half to Minas Tirith and leave the rest to await the arrival of the Lórien army.'

Boromir felt like flailing in his frustration, yet he restrained himself at the risk of insulting the Lord of the Golden Wood and the Prince of Mirkwood. Though Boromir did not doubt the skill of Legolas' people, even half of their army would be of no great help to Gondor. They were simply outnumbered. Legolas seemed to be sharing Boromir's thoughts; the two exchanged worried glances.

'Take heart,' Celeborn advised, 'and have hope. It has saved both your lives before—let it now carry you safely through danger.'

...ooo...

Night fell in Lothlórien, though it brought a gravity with it that could not be felt by its people. Only two were aware of this heavy atmosphere, and rest had difficulty finding them.

Boromir, following his strong soldiering instincts, had gathered his things and packed them well. He cleaned his sword and the dagger that had been given to him by Lady Galadriel, polishing the belt that was offered with it. His Gondorian clothes had been returned, cleaned and repaired, yet now they seemed to bear the faint glow of all things that existed within the Golden Wood. It was no bother to Boromir. He was rather beginning to appreciate this ethereal quality, though it paled in comparison to Legolas'. In a distant part of his mind the man could recall his initial dislike of the Elf, of that smug, impudent nature which infuriated him. Still greater could Boromir recall his own self-segregation within the Fellowship, and his true reasons for joining the quest: to be closer to the Ring of Power.

Boromir shook his head. It was so far away now, the One Ring, and he grimaced to remember the way he had treated Frodo at Amon Hen. He hoped they would one day meet again, and that Frodo would accept his apology. It was all so long ago, he thought. I no longer feel the desire to claim it. That madness has left me…and so has the Fellowship, save one.

Boromir's heart warmed. Save Legolas. _Mellon_.

He sat in his flet, gazing out into the dark blue mallorn trunks and thinking about tomorrow, his legs hanging over the wooden edge. It was a short while later that his eyes were moved by a white figure passing on the ground below him: it was the Lady Galadriel. Boromir watched her without breath, wondering if the beautiful Elf-Witch could hear his thoughts from this distance, wondering if she was aware of his eyes. He had scarcely finished this thought when the Lady paused, and turned her eyes up to gaze at Boromir. The breadth between them could do nothing to dilute the power of her eyes.

_Come with me…_

Boromir rose slowly to his feet as Galadriel resumed her slow promenade, yet dreamily he felt as if he were still sitting where he had been; as if his body and his spirit had separated from each other, and what moved now was only a transparent form of himself. Entranced, the man was only vaguely aware that he was descending from his flet and following Galadriel across the grass, into the deep blue shadows of the Lothlórien night.

He could have walked for hours or minutes, pulled blindly by the power of her wake, before his head seemed to clear from the enchantment. Lady Galadriel stood by an old mallorn, gazing across the gentle waters of the Silverlode. Boromir approached her hesitantly, and soon stood beside her. He tried to see where she was gazing and could not find the object of her focus. He wished to ask her what her reasons were for leading him here, yet he could not bring himself to break the peace of the moment.

'Tomorrow you shall depart from the Golden Wood,' she said after a while. 'A perilous journey awaits you, Boromir of Gondor.'

'I am aware of that, my lady,' he answered uneasily.

'And you would follow Legolas into danger? Even at the risk of death?'

'I would,' Boromir said without hesitation. 'He did not abandon me in his time of need, nor shall I abandon him. I find that we are not so dissimilar, for as he wishes to save his home and people, so do I.'

Galadriel smiled, her eyes never straying from the river. 'Then you are seeing now what you failed to see before: you are beginning to hope.'

Boromir searched his heart for words but found none, thinking of his father's failing rule and his brother's unsteady grip on Gondor's borders, and wondered how such a tender and delicate thing as hope could grow in the dark frigid wasteland of his spirit. Boromir's gloomy reverie was interrupted when Galadriel raised her white hand toward him and opened her fingers. On her palm lay a shining ring of simple make, and she spoke in a slow songlike murmur:

'Wrought in silver mithríl, the ring of two and one

Whose immortal glow cannot repair the damage done.

However fair and strong, the leaf shall one day fall,

Lost before its time—farewell, the greenest leaf of all.'

She placed the ring into Boromir's hand, closing his fingers over it.

'Bought with tears and blood, this ring to represent

The hope which took it further than its power ever meant.

To keep, protect and trust: an everlasting token

Of loyalty and friendship, and a love that can't be broken.'

Boromir had neither great appreciation nor understanding of verse and riddle, and the Lady's words puzzled him, as did her reasons for bestowing such a gift. Nevertheless he bowed his head in thanks and turned the ring over in his hand to admire it. It was a plain thing, elegant but sturdily wrought, with threads of twining míthril forming a broad bridge of loops over the face. It seemed too small for Boromir to wear, yet when he raised his head to ask what he was to do with it, Galadriel was already walking away from him. Not wishing to bother the Lady with petty inquiries, Boromir sighed, looked once more upon the ring, and slipped it onto his smallest finger. A great weariness overtook him and he left the river bank, walking into the trees with the echoes of Galadriel's words sinking deep into his memory.

How he managed to find his way back to his flet would puzzle Boromir upon waking the next morn, but for now he laid down in his cot and slept peacefully, his hand resting upon his breast and the silver ring glimmering in the pale moonlight.

Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel bid farewell to the two warriors on the banks of the Anduin, and once again Boromir and Legolas thanked their hosts for their kindness and salvation. They were given food and light supplies, for the greater part of their journey would be by foot, and being burdened by quantities of gear would not make for a swift journey. Haldir also appeared to give them his farewell and blessings of good fortune on their journey, and assured them that his archers would be watching out for their safety as far as the eastern shore. From thence they would be on their own.

Boromir, dressed as a soldier of Gondor in his mail and leather, sword and horn at his side and Lórien cloak draping off his shoulders, looked hale and in good spirits despite the bandages he wore beneath his clothes. Legolas too, clad in his raiment of green and brown and armed with daggers on his belt and quiver on his back, looked well and full of energy. They looked a fine pair as they shoved off in their boat and made for the opposite bank. Once landed, they waved their goodbyes to the Golden Wood and disappeared into the trees, their course north-east and bound to the southern border of Mirkwood.

'We have sent them into great danger,' Celeborn murmured to Galadriel, watching the two mortals disappear.

'They both have gone willingly,' she replied. 'And if they can survive the passage of Dol Guldur, they shall also survive the truth behind the ring of mithríl.'

**To Be Continued...**


	5. Into Mirkwood

**Absence of Grace  
****Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
__Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

They traveled briskly the first day, jogging through forest and bush with the Elf leading the way. Boromir found that the time passed quickly when he kept his eyes upon Legolas, who ran before him so lightly that he seemed almost weightless. He still carried a slight limp in his right leg, though if Boromir had not known it was injured he would never have noticed the change in Legolas' movements. His leaps were hypnotic to watch, like a leaf dancing on the breeze, or a graceful deer bounding silently on a blanket of snow. Boromir found that he traveled almost effortlessly when his gaze was fixed upon Legolas, though in reality his body was working far harder than he imagined.

Soon the forest began to thin and they came at last upon a broad land of gentle hills and brown grass, studded with stony outcrops and scrubby tangles of dead hedge. Legolas sprang upon the crest of a jutting rock and narrowed his eyes against the east wind. 'I see the edge of Mirkwood,' he told Boromir, who stood upon the grass and took a gulp from his water-skin. 'If we hasten we shall reach its borders by dusk.'

'That would put us close to Dol Guldur in the dark, when Orcs are likely to be out and about,' Boromir murmured, fastening the pouch and adjusting the small rucksack that had replaced his shield. 'Should we not wait for the sun to favor us before making the pass?'

'We cannot delay,' said the Elf, springing down from the rock to stand beside Boromir. 'If what Lord Celeborn said is accurate, our people have very little time before Sauron makes his move.'

Something stirred in Boromir's heart when he heard Legolas say 'our people', though he knew Legolas spoke of Elves and Men as separate races. As brief as that stirring was, it renewed the man's energy and filled his spirit with strength and daring. 'Very well. Are we to enter the forest tonight, then?'

'Yes; Orcs and other foul creatures patrol the borders near Dol Guldur, yet seldom do they stray beyond the walls of their fortress. They fear the wood which they themselves have corrupted, and none know the way back through the dark trees.'

Boromir raised his eyebrows in wonder. 'How then are _we_ to manage?'

Legolas turned his head and gave the man a playful smile, warm and mischievous and completely elven. 'You have a guide in me, Captain. I shall lead if you shall follow.'

Boromir grinned and laughed, and deep in his heart he knew that he cherished the Elf more than any comrade he had had before, more than any ring of power. 'Then I am in good hands. Lead on, my Prince!'

The smile faded from Legolas' face when he heard his noble title. 'Who told you?' he asked, a tone of fear apparent in his voice.

'Haldir,' replied Boromir, 'but please do not begrudge him for that, Legolas, nor me. I would have discovered you were Thranduil's son before long.'

'I see.' The Elf turned away, looking toward his far-off home. 'And I suppose my heritage had nothing to do with your eloquent words of gratitude in Lórien?'

Boromir was taken aback, his face growing hot with indignation. 'I am insulted you would think so poorly of my character. Do you still distrust me? What more must I do to convince you of my sincerity? It was no lie when I said that I owe my life to your heroic deeds, however foolish and reckless they were. I stand here now because of you, and I care not if you are peasant or prince!' His voice softened and he drew close to Legolas, laying a hand upon his shoulder. 'Though it would have broken my heart to tell King Thranduil that his son died to save a mortal man's life. Had I known sooner…I would have told you to leave me behind.'

'You did,' Legolas murmured, meeting Boromir's eyes. 'You begged for death, and I denied you it. I risked my life, being that I was responsible for your fall.'

'You were responsible for nothing!'

'Then why does my heart ache for you!'

Legolas' words caught them both by surprise. The Elf turned his eyes askance, his face coloring. 'Forgive me,' he said gently. 'I have difficulty accepting that a man could possess more nobility than even an elven prince.'

Boromir's eyes softened as he gazed at the fair Elf, who was somehow wounded more deeply than he had imagined. What had passed to make him so melancholy? What could Boromir do to repair the unknown thing which had broken inside his friend, his _mellon_?

'Legolas,' he said, taking up the Prince's slender hand, 'there will come a time when we understand each other's hearts, but it is not yet. If you can bear to stand by me through this war, to see it to its end with me, then I swear to you, upon the souls of my fathers, I shall stand by you until I die. You are my friend, Legolas, and I love you.'

Something hot and sharp went into Legolas' heart, and it took his breath away—it was a realization. And it frightened him more than a hundred Balrogs, a thousand deaths, or a life without one.

'Come,' he said unsteadily, stepping away. 'We must hurry if we are to reach Mirkwood by nightfall.'

...ooo...

The sky was darkening to deep lavender and the stars were beginning to smile by the time they came to the edge of Mirkwood. Even on the forest's skirt the ancient trees were large and gnarled, their roots twisting into knots and tangles as they delved into the mossy, leaf-covered ground. Their heavy limbs were draped in ivy, the leaves of which were as withered by winter as those of the trees. It looked as black as midnight within that ominous wood, and Boromir was loathe to enter it.

The chill of night was beginning to creep across the land, and Legolas attempted to hide his shivering. He had not the layers which kept Boromir warm, for his clothes had been fashioned with the assumption that its elven wearer would not forsake his immortality and become a victim of coldness. So Legolas drew his Lórien cloak about himself and hoped that the man would not notice his pallor in the dim light of dusk. He recalled that fair autumn day when he had left Mirkwood with a few of his companions, laughing and singing despite the grim news they bore, traveling west to Rivendell and the Council of Elrond. Legolas had been immortal then, his grace untarnished and his conscience light as a cloud. Now, in this dark hour, he was returning to his home as a shadow of his former self, weak and frail and ridden with guilt, ashamed and remorseful.

But he had Boromir to think about now, Boromir who seemed content with his mortality.

It was different for one who had never possessed the gift of the undying, Legolas knew, but that only made him admire the man's bravery the more, for he _was_ mortal. And the Elf suddenly found himself drawing hope and courage from those he once judged so pitiably unfortunate.

Legolas pulled his thoughts from his own misery and gave them a more useful purpose, for now he was faced with the task of leading Boromir safely through the treacherous forest. 'Dol Guldur is a mile or two within, high upon the hill we once called Amon Lanc,' he said, turning to Boromir with a serious expression. 'Do not stray from my sight, and keep me always in yours. Should we become separated, do not call for me. Stay where you are and I shall come for you. Light no torch, and make as little noise as possible. We do not wish to draw attention to ourselves.'

Boromir nodded, though every bone in his body urged him to stay out of that terrible wood. 'How far will we travel?'

'As far as we can,' Legolas answered, and turned his back to the man. 'I recommend that you take hold of my cloak. Even my eyes see little in this place at night.'

Boromir grasped the fringe of Legolas' Lórien cloak. 'I fear no darkness. Lead us on, Legolas.' And together they took their first steps into Mirkwood, disappearing entirely into its shadows. They walked for some time, as slowly and quietly as they could. The wood was as grave as a tomb, and just as silent. All around them pressed the heavy blackness, threatening in the way a predator stalks its blind quarry. Every now and again the gleam of yellow or green or red eyes peered out at them, then vanished. Boromir thought he would surely be lost without his friend's guidance, though after some time his eyes began to adjust to the unnatural dark. He began to see shapes, outlines of trees and branches, and the vague form of Legolas walking before him. He seemed less radiant now, Boromir thought, as if his elven glow has become tired and faded from their journey. The only object which caught any light at all was the míthril ring upon Boromir's finger, though its sparkle was outweighed by the shadows all around them.

After a while Boromir was unable to bear the silence, and asked, 'Has this forest always been so dreadful?

'Nay,' the Elf said softly. 'Once it was green and full of light, a place where birds sang and butterflies danced by day, and where the night-owl hooted and the fireflies played. The moon would shine down through the branches and cast her glow upon the flowers that grow beneath the trees, and the river would murmur as it rushed over rock and root, clear and green before it went foul. We used to sing to the night, to find joy in the rising of the silver moon and her host of stars.' His voice grew sorrowful. 'But now there is no joy in Greenwood. Its beauty has been stained and its peace stolen, its form perverted and poisoned into the abomination that is now Mirkwood.'

Boromir waited briefly before gently asking, 'Why then do your people not abandon this curséd place?'

'Because,' the Elf whispered, 'it is our home, and we have no other place to go.'

The man remained silent for a time, knowing for himself how difficult it is to see one's home slowly taken over and destroyed before one's own eyes. How much more difficult it is when you are the prince of your realm, or the son of its steward. If Legolas were anything like Boromir, they would both die before they saw their realms fall to Sauron's evil. The thought was at the same time comforting and terrible.

The night drew on, growing deep. Boromir felt his exertions from that day catching up to him, and his pace slowed. 'I am afraid weariness is overtaking me,' he murmured.

'It is not safe to rest here,' Legolas answered.

'I do not know how much longer I can continue,' Boromir said, wincing as dull pain throbbed in his healing wounds. 'An hour more at the greatest, but I shall have to rest.'

Legolas paused and stood still a moment, then he turned to Boromir. 'I fear I am driving you too hard. Forgive me. We shall rest here.'

Camp with no fire is a miserable thing, especially on a cold night as this. They found shelter beneath the low branches of a beech and ate a little lembas before wordlessly retiring. Legolas agreed to first watch, though it was not long before fatigue was causing his eyes to fall closed while he shuddered in the cold.

From his position sitting against the tree, Boromir, with sleepy concern, watched the Elf trembling. He recalled the unaffected caprice he had witnessed upon Caradhras, the playful dismissal of the snow while the rest of the Fellowship cursed it, and wondered why Legolas was now so afflicted. Maybe it was not cold, but terror which was causing him to shiver. Yet when Boromir reached out and grasped Legolas' hand, he was startled by its lack of warmth. 'You are like ice!' he whispered, and the Elf shot him a worried glance that Boromir could not see. 'Why are you so cold, Legolas?'

He did not answer, but looked the other way, his heart sick with sorrow. He heard Boromir shuffling beside him, and then felt something soft placed into his hand.

'Take my gloves,' the man admonished. 'They are likely too large, but your hands will be warmer than without them.'

Legolas closed his hand around the offering. 'Thank you,' he whispered, and put them on. Boromir was right—they were too large for him, yet the worn leather felt pleasant against his chilled skin. 'You are very kind, Boromir.'

The man mumbled his self-conscious welcomes, and tucked his bare hands beneath his arms. 'You look after me; I shall look after you. We shall look after each other and be better because of it. My father once told me: the whole of an army is greater than the sum of its parts; that together more can be accomplished than anything an individual by himself is capable of achieving…' Boromir trailed off, his words suddenly becoming more intimate than he has intended, and he wondered—very briefly, a fleeting thought—if Legolas were wed, what kind of an Elf she was, if she was a good match for him, if she loved him…if she would die for him as readily as Boromir.

Thinking had suddenly become dangerous, and the Captain of Gondor banished these fantasies from his mind. He was tired and wished to sleep, and sleep soon found him. The night passed slowly. Legolas sat with his bow at his side and his hands clasped in his lap. They had become warm again. He thought often of Boromir and his words: stronger than the sum of their parts. Capable of more together than alone. Perhaps this was they, a Man and an Elf, who could unite their strengths and diminish their weaknesses, as one. Now, at this point in time, Legolas desired strength more than ever. He was ashamed to admit that he yearned for protection, for power, for comfort, for reassurance that mortality meant more than simply weakness and death. Legolas came very close to rousing Boromir and telling him of his loss, though his elven sensibility stayed his voice. He swallowed his words and let them ferment in his body like decaying fruit. Sooner or later, he knew, they would be purged, that whether by his will or not, the truth would inevitably come out.

Legolas was almost nodding when a new sound slowly faded into existence, not of the wind in the trees or the rustling of leaves, but voices, many fair voices, singing. They were elven, very faint, but still audible to elven ears. Legolas crawled to his feet and cocked his head, listening. The voices were distant, sad, the song's words unintelligible. They seemed to be coming from the west, and Legolas pointed himself in that direction, wandering slowly. He knew he should not leave Boromir alone, but the man was sleeping so soundly that Legolas was certain he would have time to investigate and return before he woke.

He walked soundlessly through the leaves, ears straining to discern words. Slowly they began to come to him as he drew nearer:

_Long it has been_

_Since we have seen_

_The light of sun and moon…_

_Long we have cried_

_As our kin died—_

_Our death is coming soon…_

Legolas did not know this song, and its macabre lyrics chilled him to his core. Elves singing of death and despair—it was not right. There were no Elf-homes this far south in Mirkwood. What could Elves be doing in this dangerous part of the forest?

_We sing our grief_

_Yet no relief_

_Comes to set us free…_

_We shall not stir_

_In Dol Guldur_

_When Death answers our plea…_

Legolas stopped in his tracks. The trees had thinned, turning into hacked stumps and dead ivy, and above him loomed a black silhouette with flickering yellow eyes, standing upon a stony hill bereft of vegetation. This was the source of the singing—this was the fortress of Dol Guldur. There were Elves, Legolas realized, his kin, his people, in that wicked place, singing of death and suffering.

'_O Elbereth!_' Legolas cried softly in horror. '_It cannot be!_' A fiery rage coursed through his blood, igniting his heart with righteous indignation. He listened to those fair voices continue their dirge, and knew that there was no way he would be able to leave this place without attempting to free them. He cursed himself for leaving his bow behind, yet his better senses assured him that he had not enough arrows to storm that dark fortress by himself. Perhaps if Boromir helped him, it could be done. It was madness, he knew, but he must do something!

Legolas was in the act of turning around to fetch his companion when his world went black. A rough bag was shoved over his head and its cinch tightened round his neck. His arms shot out and struck metal armor, and then something heavy felled him from behind. The last thing he was aware of was the laughter of Orcs as they began to bind his hands.

...ooo...

Boromir opened his eyes. It was dark and silent, and he knew before he saw anything that he was alone. Some part of him was aware Legolas' absence. He felt it deep in his chest, a cold, worrisome hollowness. He sat up and stared blindly into the darkness, and though he knew he would not receive an answer, he called softly to Legolas. Some part of him strained to hear the Elf's approach, an apologetic voice for his temporary absence, but Boromir knew better. Something was terribly wrong. How he knew this he could not explain, but his heart was pounding with fear.

Where had he gone? What could have pulled him from his watch with such haste that the Elf forgot his Lórien bow? Boromir picked it up, running his hands along the intricately carved wood. Legolas treasured this bow. He would part from it as unreadily as Boromir would part with his sword. No, something had taken Legolas. The Prince was in danger. And then, in that moment, Boromir saw in his mind the fortress of Dol Guldur, and knew in every fiber of his body that he would find Legolas in that awful place.

Boromir stood and slipped the pack of supplies onto his back, along with Legolas' bow, but hesitated when it came time to take his first step. He knew not his bearings, nor which direction to take to reach Dol Guldur. He was utterly lost without Legolas, doomed and alone in the depths of Mirkwood.

Boromir drew a slow breath and opened his heart, for his mind was no longer capable of leading him to his vanished friend. He began to make his way forward, eyes closed for their uselessness, arms stretched out before him to prevent his collision with trees. He was frightened, though it came without shame; any other man in his position would have been screaming with terror, fleeing into trees and running circles, howling and weeping so loudly that all of the evil lurking in the shadows would have found him. Boromir controlled his fear and used it to keep him alert. He regularly bumped into trees and got tangled in dead ivy, but still he pressed on. 'Legolas,' he whispered, hoping that his fears were in vain, that the Elf would suddenly appear and laugh at his friend's worry. 'Legolas, it is Boromir. I cannot see you. Legolas…?'

He wandered blindly for what seemed to be hours, and no sign of light or Legolas appeared. However, a growing feeling of apprehension had begun to settle itself in his belly, and Boromir became aware that he was being watched by something. Or some things. He could hear them in the branches above his head—a sudden faint scuttling, the sound of falling pieces of bark, dead leaves rustling. And before long he thought he heard them speaking to one another in quiet, rasping hisses.

Boromir calmly lowered himself into a crouch and began to run his hands over the ground, searching. Finding what he needed, he lifted the dead branch and drew a match from his pocket, lighting it with a scratch of his thumbnail. A small light flared, intensely bright, and Boromir set it to the branch. The dry wood caught fire and light bloomed across the man's surroundings. The scrabbling and scratching heightened, and unearthly hisses rose with the noise of many irritated insects.

Boromir held the burning brand aloft and dozens of multi-faceted eyes recoiled, climbing higher into the trees around him. As his eyes adjusted to the light he could see the shapes which belonged to the eyes: eight-legged, large-bodied, fang-bearing. 'So I have met the spiders of Mirkwood,' Boromir muttered. At his voice the huge arachnids began to clamor excitedly, saliva dripping from their mandibles. 'I wonder,' he continued, 'if you are not the cowardly, stupid beasts who hide their repulsiveness from the world?'

A chorus of angry hisses and seething followed his words. Boromir began to get an idea of what he was dealing with, and his soldier's mind started to formulate a plan. 'So you are then sensible creatures? That is good. I have much to discuss with you.'

From high in the trees one of the larger spiders drifted slowly down on a thick string of web, pausing as it was just out of reach of the burning branch. 'No…talk,' it rasped in a thin, wicked voice. 'You...die.'

Boromir concealed his shock, for he had not expected these vile monsters to possess the ability to speak. Now he knew their intentions, and his plan could be better implemented. 'Die?' he asked, feigning astonishment. 'What have I done to deserve death?'

'All…trespassers…die,' said the hanging spider, glaring at Boromir with its many beady eyes. 'Man-blood…rare.' This brought another round of excited noise from the hungry arachnids.

Boromir's skin crawled. 'I suppose man-blood is rare,' he agreed, 'yet I am a soldier, tough and old. My blood is bitter from war and my skin thick as leather. I would be no fine meal.'

The spider above him hissed lowly, considering the words. For a moment Boromir removed himself from the situation and tried to imagine what he looked like: a man trapped in the dark with a burning stick, trying to negotiate with a lot of ravenous arachnids. The thought stuck him as tremendously amusing, even in such a precarious position, and he had to suppress his urge to laugh. 'My fine spiders,' he said, 'you deserve a better feast than that! What if I could promise you richer blood? Perhaps Elf-blood?'

This seemed to excite the spiders into near-frenzy, though the hanging leader remained unaffected. 'What…deal…have you?' it rasped.

'Lead me to Dol Guldur. I shall fetch your feast for you.'

'You…free…sirens?'

Boromir frowned. 'Sirens?'

'Elf-slaves…' The spider waved its legs. 'Sing…lure…prisoners.'

Boromir's heart sank. Legolas. It could not be. Yet there could be no other explanation: Legolas had heard the singing of Elves and followed them to his capture. The Valar only knew what became of him, and if he were still alive. Or if he were alive, was he being tortured? Boromir swallowed his fear and anguish. 'It was not my intention to free any slaves,' he said, 'yet if I were to be led to Dol Guldur as swiftly as possible, I would return this favor.'

The spiders talked among themselves in their own insidious tongue while Boromir stood anxiously below, awaiting their verdict. If they disagreed he would be forced to draw his sword and challenge them all—and he was no match against these numbers—yet if they agreed…

'We…decided,' said the chief spider, returning to dangle above Boromir. 'Your…word.'

'You have it,' Boromir said hastily, though a stab of betrayal went through his heart. He had never gone back on his word, not even a word given to his enemies. Yet he knew that he could not give Legolas to these beasts, nor any Elf-slaves that they spoke of. This was a matter of life and death, and Boromir realized that he would bear no guilt for breaking his word if it meant saving Legolas' life. I shall at last repay my debt to him, he thought as he followed the spiders in the trees above. Take heart, Legolas! I will find you!

**To Be Continued...**


	6. The Table of Blood

**Absence of Grace  
****Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

Legolas awoke suddenly, as if from a terrible nightmare, but found that the nightmare had followed him into reality. He lay on his side with his wrists bound before him by thick ropes—they bit into his skin and chafed it red-raw. His wounded shoulder ached from his rough treatment, as did nearly his every limb. Worst of all, his captors had not removed the burlap sack from his head, and it was suffocating him. He sat up and quickly began to pull at the cinch, though the knot was tied fast. The Elf's nimble fingers fortunately made quick work of the cord, and he pulled the sack from his head, breathing in the hot damp air gratefully. His hair was utterly disheveled and the back of his head was sore from the blow that had stolen his senses earlier. He observed his surroundings.

He appeared to have been tossed—as if he were of no more value than a sack of dirt—upon the stone floor of some sort of store room, the only entrance or exit being the heavy wooden door to his left. Large kegs filled with grog and ale lined the walls. Empty barrels sat upright and were filled with putrid water, rusted tools and blades, or had blood oozing from between their rotted planks. The rank scent they gave off could only mean that they were filled with dead things, half-decaying in lumps of salt. Legolas felt fear rise in his chest when he noticed that the center of the room bore far less clutter than its corners, for a battered wooden table was the only item there. Its surface was rubbed smooth from years of use, and stained black-brown from spilt blood. The Elf gazed at it warily, at the cuffed chains and leather straps dangling from its sides, at the crisscrossing blade-marks on its surface, at the harnesses hanging from the rafters overhead, and knew that he had been brought before a butcher's table, a place where living creatures suffered long before they were finally slaughtered. Legolas looked away, swallowing his sickness.

Hot fires burned in the three hearths opposite the door, but Legolas found no comfort in their warmth. Sweat ran from his brow and his clothes were damp with it. His captors had taken his belt, his cloak and his quiver, and the green outer layer of his jerkin, leaving the Elf in naught but his pale blue tunic. His bandaged shoulder showed through his open collar.

He drew himself into a kneeling position before slowly rising to his feet. His head swam dizzyingly but he remained standing, though he felt sick to his soul in this repugnant place, a sensation that only grew worse when he realized the gravity of his situation: he was trapped in the fortress of Dol Guldur, lured into capture by the voices of elven prisoners, and Boromir was abandoned—lost and blind—in the darkness of Mirkwood. The Elf cursed himself for his foolishness, though his heart was given over to sorrow instead of anger. Boromir would never find his way though the dangerous wood without an elven guide, and if Legolas were to perish in this awful place, then so would Boromir perish along with him.

I must free myself, Legolas thought determinedly, eyes searching the room for something he could use to cut his bonds. A dull scimitar hung on the opposite wall alongside hooks and iron rods—dull or not, it was better than nothing. Legolas limped slowly over, the healing wound on his thigh sending waves of sharp pain through his leg. He had just reached the wall when there came the sound of approaching footsteps and harsh voices from outside, and the Elf drew in a breath of surprise. He had no time to think of actions before the door was unlocked and thrown open wide.

Four massive Orcs strode into the room, snarling when they saw that their prisoner had awoken. 'Very good,' growled the one draped in a bloodstained leather vest. He drew a long, evil-looking knife from his belt. 'They's more fun to play wif when they's awake.'

Terror, icy and savage as lightning, ripped through Legolas' heart when two of the big Orcs began to approach him menacingly. But the Elf's fighting instincts took over when fear threatened to take him entirely.

A slender leg shot out and, though it seemed hardly capable of harming such a beast, laid one of the Orcs out on the floor with a startled _oof!_ Blood coursed from his mouth and rotten teeth scattered across the stones. Legolas half-grinned with delight before turning his attention to the upright Orc and kicking him squarely in the gut. When the big brute failed to fall, Legolas lurched forward, grabbed the Orc's filthy hand with his own bound ones, and gave a quick, effectual twist. The sickening crack of bone sounded and the Orc fell to his knees screeching.

The two remaining Orcs screamed in fury and commenced chasing the Elf about the room. Legolas deftly evaded his bumbling captors—jumping up on the table and delivering swift kicks to ugly faces, alighting upon barrels and sending them crashing down, spilling tools and scattering firewood, all the while trying to get between his enemies and the door. But that chance never came.

The toothless Orc had pulled himself upright during the chase and grabbed the obnoxious little pest by the ankles when he landed on the table. 'Gotcher!' he grunted, and before Legolas could kick himself free, his feet were wrenched out from under him and he crashed onto the table. The four Orcs fell upon him with cruel delight, undaunted by the Elf's violent struggles; he was outnumbered, injured, and soon overpowered.

Legolas lay on the table, bruised and bleeding, wounds singing with pain, with his bound hands pinned painfully above his head, and his ankles secured in the merciless hold of two Orcs. The head of the group leaned over him with a smile that did nothing to alleviate his hideousness. 'Ye shouldn't av done that, Elf. We was gonna make this quick an' easy, but since ye decided to be sassy, we's gonna do it the hard way.'

Legolas leaned upward and spat onto his attacker's face. Silence fell for a moment. The Orc did not bother to wipe the spittle away, but grasped the Elf's face in one hand, squeezing his cheeks painfully. 'Mind yer tongue, brat,' he growled, raising his knife, 'or I'll mind it for ye.'

Legolas scowled, an expression dark and terrible, and his blue eyes flashed with unmistakable hatred. The other Orcs laughed. 'Watch out, Gorlok!' they jeered. 'I think he likes yer!'

Gorlok cackled and released his grip. 'We'll cure 'im of that. Nuzgut! Make ready the Iron Flame.'

The Orc named Nuzgut growled obediently and went to the wall decorated with implements of torture. Legolas watched with dawning terror as the brute took down a sharpened iron rod and thrust it into the fire. Soon the metal began to grow red-hot.

Gorlok leaned closed to Legolas' face. 'A word of advice, my pretty dove,' he grunted, his foul breath causing the Elf to recoil, 'strugglin' only makes it hurt more.' Yellow eyes roved Legolas' body, coming to rest at his shoulder. 'Well now. Looks like this'd be a nice place ter start.'

Grasping the collar of Legolas' tunic, Gorlok wrenched it open with a tearing sound, baring the Elf's chest and bandaged arrow-wound. Legolas shouted wordlessly and lurched up, fighting against the Orcs who held him down. They merely laughed at his futile efforts and tightened their hold. Gorlok grasped a clawful of gauze and ripped it away, exposing the scabbed red puncture on the Elf's shoulder. He grinned as he called Nuzgut from the fire.

Legolas' eyes widened with horror as the glowing metal rod was held above his vulnerable flesh. Gorlok cackled. 'Let's see how loud this dove can sing, lads!' Laughter echoed all around.

Legolas shut his eyes tightly and held his lower lip between his teeth. The flaming sharp iron pierced his wound slowly. He could hear his flesh hissing and smell the burning odor, but the pain was soon all he could think about. In all his hundreds of centuries of life, never had he encountered pain as consuming as this. Tears, clear and pure, squeezed out from his shut eyes. He sucked in a sob, and that was the only sound to escape him. Fire and wrath seared into his body, agony of all agonies, torture so acute it was blinding, a brand of suffering so merciless and cruelty so uncalled for that its thought alone was too terrible to bear. His whole body felt as if it were laid within a bonfire, his heated blood coursing through his veins like lava and setting him ablaze from the inside out.

In a shadowy part of his mind Legolas knew that he was capable of escaping from this hell, but an image stood between him and his own suicide: it was Boromir, smiling at Legolas the way he had in Lothlórien, laughing, embracing him, calling him _mellon_. For when Boromir had been in the boat, dying with agonizing slowness, the Elf had kept paddling. And when Legolas was twice shot by Orcs on the bank of the Anduin, was weak and outnumbered, still he had stood his ground. And as Boromir had lain upon the cot, having just awoken from his death-slumber while Legolas sat, bereft of his immortality, the Elf had kept hoping.

And now Boromir was sitting in the dark of Mirkwood, with nothing but evil and death to keep him company. Legolas knew that he could not give in now, however terrible his pain—he cared for Boromir too greatly to come this far only to surrender. Now, as he lay upon a table, being violently tortured by Orcs, he realized what his heart had known all along. He knew how he had come to surrender his grace, and knew that it was no accident. Because sacrifice made for love, Legolas thought, never happens by accident.

In the midst of all the blood and pain, a smile came to the Elf's lips, and tears ran from his eyes. '_How I love you_,' he gasped. '_Ai, how I love you!_'

The Orcs paused in their torture, bewildered by the apparent joy on their prisoner's face. Gorlok grunted, 'What's the meanin' of-' when he was suddenly cut off by the deep bellow of a horn. It was faint, coming from somewhere outside, but its timber could not be mistaken.

Legolas choked with laughter. It was the horn of Gondor.

...ooo...

Boromir drew another breath and sounded the call once more. From within the shadows of the forest's eaves he watched the sentries scatter excitedly, screaming for archers to combat this unseen menace. Torches were lit and guards ran to the battlements while a troop of foot soldiers began to assemble at the fortress gate. Boromir lowered his horn. 'Well, that certainly lit a fire under their tails,' he smirked grimly. He raised the hood of his Lórien cloak over his head. He could hear the spiders clamoring behind him in their agitation. Though a terrible force themselves, they did not enjoy dealing with a small army of blood-hungry Orcs.

Hoping beyond hope that what was spoken of the elven cloaks was true, Boromir turned and ran as fast as he could manage, just within the edge of the forest, keeping the ominous spectacle of Dol Guldur always to his left. He went for some time until the moon shone on left of the main tower instead of its right, and he was now facing the back of the fortress. As he had expected, any additional guards at the gate were summoned away to meet the threat that had made itself known at their front door. Boromir trembled with anticipation before he darted out into the clear, keeping his head low and his body hunched, expecting at any time to hear the whistle of arrows or the shout of sentries. Miraculously, he heard nothing.

The empty area betwixt forest and fortress rose steadily as Boromir darted cautiously forward. A deep, empty moat awaited him as he drew closer, and with careful deliberation he eased himself into it, taking care to avoid freeing loose rocks. He was halfway down when he lost his footing and tumbled the rest of the way, grunting in pain as he landed at the bottom. Two Orcs at the fortress gate turned at the sudden noise, yet they saw nothing but shadow and rock wherever they gazed. Boromir held his breath until the guards returned to their posts, then quietly exhaled. He was shaken from his fall but amazingly uninjured; the Lórien bow he carried over his back was also intact. He pressed on and soon pulled himself from the moat.

He came to the base of the fortress and paused to catch his breath, orienting himself as he did. The foot of Dol Guldur was surrounded by a hill of loose boulders, piled high up the wall to prevent against easy seizure. A stone bridge went from the gate over the moat and ended in a broad staircase leading to the wood; certainly the formal way in. Yet Boromir would have to climb this rocky bank in order to come over the side of the bridge and reach the gate. From thence, he thought grimly, stealth will not matter.

Making certain that he was shielded by his cloak, the Captain of Gondor began to ascend the stony hill.

...ooo...

The door burst open and a small battalion of Orcs stood in the threshold. 'Leave the prisoner!' the lieutenant snarled. 'Get yer mangy hides up to yer stations!'

'Why?' Gorlok snapped. 'We under attack?'

'We _will_ be, unless that ain't a whole _bleedin' army right outside our gate!_' the soldier roared. '_Now get movin'!_'

Legolas opened his mouth in a wordless scream as the smoldering iron was wrenched from his bleeding shoulder. He gasped for breath, sweat running in rivulets from his brow. Nuzgut and the two other Orcs began to run about frantically while Gorlok grasped a dangling hook and chain from the rafters and brought it down to the table. He slid the hook tightly between the ropes securing Legolas' wrists and moved to a crank on the opposite wall. Turning the handle, the Elf was hoisted up like a flag until his feet dangled several inches from the table's surface. 'Stay right there,' Gorlok growled to him as he locked down the crank. 'We'll finish playin' when I get back.'

A few moments later the door slammed shut. Legolas heard the sound of it being locked and bolted, and then a calm silence fell about the room, an unsettling contrast to the violence that had just taken place within its walls. The Elf let out a long sigh and groaned involuntarily in pain. Blood was oozing from his shoulder and staining his tunic dark red. He prayed he was not too badly injured. The pain was still excruciating, especially now as he hung from the rafters like a carcass, but at least he was no longer being perforated by a hot iron rod. But perhaps best of all, Boromir was still alive and he had managed to find his way to Dol Guldur.

He has come to save me, Legolas thought. How could he have known, unless our hearts are so united that we share one another's thoughts?

The Elf tried desperately to withhold his tears, for they were not borne of happiness. Boromir was one man, one sword, set against all of the Orcs in Dol Guldur and all of their evil weapons. He was bound to perish against such odds. It was as unfair a match as Gandalf and the Balrog, the beast that had stolen one of their most beloved friends from their Fellowship. How could Boromir ever hope to evade the heinous Orcs or match them in combat? It was impossible—it was madness!

And then the fretful Legolas became still, for the words of Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien, came to his mind: '_You must care deeply for Boromir to endure so much misery on his behalf_.'

'_He would have done the same for me_,' Legolas whispered, recalling his own reply, '_as a true soldier of Gondor. I would gladly lay my life on his loyalty_.' He raised his head, staring at an unseen point high above the misery and suffering of Dol Guldur. 'Find me, Boromir,' the prince murmured. 'Hope has saved our lives once before, in dark hours where it seemed the light of dawn would never find us. If we are lost, we are lost together, and whether it is madness that drives us onward…or perhaps a love so great that we cannot yet see it for its power, let it bring you now to me.'

Legolas closed his eyes, and regretted nothing.

...ooo...

Boromir pressed his back to the fortress wall. His ascent had gone undetected, and now he was but a short distance from the gate. Yet there was no way he could launch an attack from this position; it would be folly to expect the two armed guards to await his arrival over the rocks until he could mount the bridge and fight them properly. And then there were the archers on the turrets above. It was a bad position, Boromir knew. But he was not yet out of ideas.

The Captain peered from the shadows and studied his opponents. He was very close now, and the slightest movement or sound could be detected. Very slowly Boromir lowered himself to his haunches and gathered a few goodly-sized cobbles. If there was one thing he had learned from hobbits, it was that rocks were as suitable a weapon as any sword, provided you knew how to use them. Merry and Pippin, Boromir thought reverently, this is for you.

He drew back his arm and let fly a rock. It sailed unseen over the bridge and clattered onto the stones on the other side, creating a small slide. The two sentries immediately turned their backs to investigate the disturbance, and Boromir launched his attack. The second rock savagely struck one Orc directly on his helm, sending him reeling over the side of the bridge. The other guard spun about and a stone flew past his head.

'Who's the maggot tossin' those-' He was abruptly cut off by an elven dagger embedding into his throat. He toppled over with a bloody gurgle.

Boromir stumbled over the rocks hastily until he was able to leap over the bridge. Hurriedly he wrenched his blade from the dead Orc and shook the blood from its blade. He sheathed the dagger and drew his sword, and turned to the gate. The heavy doors were closed and impassable, but every fortress had a side-door for the guards to come and go at every shift. Boromir's old combat instructor had told him that early on in the boy's life, very basic knowledge to him by now. He found the door not far from the gate, tucked away in a dark corner. Two mighty kicks at the lock splintered the wood enough that Boromir was able to shoulder his way through.

A narrow corridor awaited him. What lay at its end he knew not, and once he passed through there would be no turning back—Orcs would surely follow him from behind. It was a trap, and no seasoned soldier in his right mind would dare enter such a place. Yet Boromir was not entirely in his right mind at the moment, thus he plunged forth with reckless abandon, allowing the unbridled vehemence of battle to take his blood. He imagined Legolas a prisoner in this wicked place, a white rose trapped in a garden of fire and smoke and twisted metal, subjected to the tortures of his grotesque captors, and a rage unlike that he had ever felt filled Boromir's heart and turned his vision to red.

He came to a winding staircase at the end of the corridor and took them two steps at a time. Scarcely did he take note of cutting down the first Orc he came across, or the second, or the fifth and sixth. A trail of dying bodies followed in his wake, the fury of the Captain of Gondor unleashed upon Dol Guldur. He knew not where he was going or where the next passage would lead him—it did not matter. He would raise this fortress himself if he must, and leave none alive.

Boromir became aware of shouts and roars from adjoining halls, and knew that his presence had been discovered. Though his anger lent him a desire to tear down the walls of Dol Guldur, his level-headedness told him that enduring the embarrassment of skulking about in the shadows would help him to more easily find Legolas. Boromir's warrior-pride was difficult to subdue, but in the end he ducked into a darkened corridor and shut the door behind him as a crowd of Orcs surged past.

Boromir sank against the wall and tried to still his pounding heart. It was quiet in this corridor, cold and damp. It smelled of moss and decay. Holding his sword poised, Boromir strode quietly down the way, passing by heavily barred doors. The prisons, he realized. A bright glimmer of hope fluttered in his chest. Here would he surely find Legolas! Perhaps his heart knew the way to the Elf better than his own head.

'Legolas!' he called softly. 'Legolas, I am here! Do not fear. I have come to free you!'

He heard a shuffling behind the doors, and then came the words, spoken by a soft and unfamiliar voice, that stopped him in his tracks: '_Iston le?_'

Boromir turned. 'Is someone there?' he whispered.

'_Man carel le?_' the voice answered.

'I do not understand you. Are you Elvish?' He fumbled for words. '_Edhel…edhelen?_'

Quiet voices seemed to come from all around him. Faint footfalls could be heard at the doors, behind whose barred windows came pale but beautiful faces. Boromir lowered his sword in awe. 'You are the sirens,' he murmured, gazing about the many doors.

'We are Elves,' pleaded a fair voice, and Boromir moved to the door behind which it had come. Through the bars he saw a gaunt face staring back at him, large green eyes filled with torment and suffering. The once beautiful locks of golden hair had been raggedly shorn by Orc knives, and an old scar ran from chin to crown, over cheek and brow. He looked young, yet Boromir knew that the Elf was of great age. 'You are a Man,' said the Elf with astonishment, eyes falling to the Lórien broach of Boromir's cloak. 'Yet you wear the raiment of the Golden Wood!'

'Have no fear; I am an Elf-friend,' said Boromir.

'How did you ever come to this place?'

'My companion has been captured,' said Boromir earnestly. 'I have come here to retrieve him.'

'_Ai_, may the Valar forgive us!' cried a voice from behind. 'We do not want to sing! The _yrch_ force us!'

Said another voice, 'It is they who lay traps to capture brethren that come to free us.'

'I may not be your brethren,' vowed Boromir, 'but I shall try to free you all the same. Quickly, where might I find new prisoners?'

'All those captured are sent to the Table of Blood,' said the Elf with the scar. 'There they are broken or tortured to death.'

Boromir felt suddenly faint, and grasped the bars on the door to steady himself. 'Where is this Table?'

'I know not, but it is somewhere on the floor above our cells.' The Elf gazed upward, a hollow expression of loss exaggerating his already dismal features. 'So that the prisoners may hear the screams.'

The Captain of Gondor grit his teeth in subdued rage and took a deep breath, gathering his senses for a moment. What manner of beast could torture these fair folk so horribly and find pleasure in it? What devil could murder the innocent, mutilating and bleeding a race so gentle as the First Born? There was no conscience in these monsters, no regret or shame for their wicked deeds. They simply did it because they could, because it was what they were bred to do: destroy the beautiful, poison the pure, lay ruin to whatever goodness could be found. The reason was simple—the servants of Sauron, and every thing connected to him, was irrevocably and undeniably _evil_. The Ring, the Riders, the Orcs, this tower of iniquity within which he now stood, all created by evil to serve the purpose of evil.

Outrage, hatred, and a molten fire of righteousness flared within the forges of Boromir's heart as he raised his head. 'What is your name, friend?' he asked the scarred Elf.

'Galron of Greenwood,' the Elf replied. 'And how are you called?'

'I am Boromir son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor.'

'Gondor! You are far from home, Captain Boromir. Why have you journeyed to such dark lands as these?'

'I have a duty to fulfill,' Boromir muttered, turning away. 'But first I must find my lost friend.'

'Wait!' Galron cried, thrusting his hands through the bars. 'Please do not leave us, I beg you!'

Boromir turned and grasped the Elf's hands. They were dirty and covered with dried blood, yet warm with immortal life. He gazed into green eyes and swore fervently, 'On my honor, I shall not abandon you and your folk, Galron of Greenwood, even if I must crawl here to die before your door. _I will return_.'

Tears of joy flooded the Elf's eyes and he nodded resolutely. Boromir gave his hand a squeeze and then released him, and slipped out of the corridor as silently as he had come.

**To Be Continued...**


	7. Escape from Dol Guldur

﻿**Absence of Grace  
****Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

Legolas could feel his body dying. The pain in his shoulder had swum into his head like a heavy cloud, pouring a rain of disconnected thoughts into a mind that was already balancing on the edge of consciousness. Voices came to him, cross-sections of memories that seemed to have happened long ago to a wholly different person. Faces flashed before his mind's eye, and the events of a time long passed entered his drowsy head:

_I do not wish to go to Rivendell, _ada_._

_For what reason? Does Lord Elrond fill you with fear, my son?_

_Nay; but I should not like to bear ill news to his house._

_How cowardly your words are! Show some honor of responsibility, Legolas. It is by our people's fault that Gollum has escaped-_

_Why then should I be forced to pay for the mistakes of others? Why must I receive the brunt of Lord Elrond's ire, when I had no-_

_Hold your impetuous tongue! I shall hear no more of your complaints. Go to Rivendell, Legolas, and may you return a wiser, more patient Elf than the disagreeable son that has left!_

'O _ada_,' Legolas spoke softly, 'rejoice if I should return to you at all.' Clenching his teeth, he tried once again to stretch as far as he could, toes dangling vainly in the empty air above the table. He hissed when his efforts caused his wrists to slide deeper into the ropes, cutting his flesh. He felt small threads of warmth unravel down the length of his arms, into his sleeves, and knew that it was blood.

So much blood, he thought. Soon it will all drain from me, and then…

Legolas craned his neck back and flexed his numb hands. He could not tolerate another useless attempt to swing himself free, or find something to land upon. The chain from which he hung was too short, and the pendulant motion had already rubbed his wrists to the point of stinging agony.

I am going to die here. It had been too long. Boromir has surely been overtaken by now. The man to whom I sacrificed my grace…

The Elf shut his eyes tight, willing away the tears. He would not weep now. It was too late for tears.

_Legolas. Grief and regret will not undo what has been done, and it will not heal Boromir's wounds. Despairing only deepens the darkness in your heart_._ Now is the time to hope and have faith. Surely would Boromir appreciate those virtues in the stead of your pardons_.

'What hope do I have now, Haldir?' he whispered.

_I shall never forget your sacrifice, my friend. If I must forsake all memories save one when I pass into the halls of my fathers, it shall be of you._

Legolas shook his head, trying to rid himself of the dream-voices, for their presence meant that he was drawing ever closer to the end of his life.

_You are my friend, Legolas, and I love you._

Why did I not reply? Why did I not tell him then?

_You are my friend, Legolas, and I love you._

'Why must I die a fool, when I have already lived my life as one?' Legolas suddenly kicked his legs into the air, raging against his bonds, ignoring the pain that threatened to swallow him. '_Why should I be forced to pay for my heart's mistakes!_'

At that moment the heavy wooden door exploded inward with a violent splintering sound. Legolas snapped to attention, fear seizing his heart. Only when the door gave way after the fourth blow, and a tall figure emerged from the shadows, did Legolas truly feel like dying. Only it would be death from overwhelming joy.

Boromir rested his eyes upon the elven prince, and no amount of shadows or the lingering fury in his veins was capable of concealing his horror. 'Legolas!' he uttered, darting to the table and sheathing his sword. The Elf was gasping for breath in an attempt to stifle his sobs of relief when Boromir mounted the table and drew his dagger. He wrapped his shield arm tight about Legolas' waist, and proceeded to hold him steady as he cut through the thick ropes. He swore under his breath, cursing Orcs, cursing Dol Guldur, cursing every foul and evil thing that crawled upon Middle Earth.

Legolas leaned into the man, pressing his face against his shoulder and breathing in his scent. Comfort the likes of which he had never expected to feel again washed over him, and in that moment he came free from the hook, dropping into Boromir's arms.

For several moments they stood in silence upon the table, embracing one another tightly, both aware of the impossibility of this reunion, unable to believe that—despite all odds, through forests of darkness and prisons of iron—they had survived, and found one another again.

'Never again will I leave you,' Legolas murmured, clenching his bloody hands in Boromir's cloak. 'Forgive me.'

The man held him very tightly for a few seconds, then he slowly pulled back and, taking Legolas' dirt-smudged face into his rough hands, held him gently, stroking his thumb across the soft cold cheek. Boromir's grey-blue eyes seemed to take on a depth that fell far into the core of his soul. 'Do not ask my forgiveness,' he said, 'for there is nothing—_nothing_—you could do that would ever cause me to evict you from my heart. _Mellon_.' He pulled the prince into another embrace, stroking the sooty golden hair with shaking hands. 'My _mellon_.'

And for the first time in his long life, Legolas felt himself unworthy of something so precious. Never again, he imagined, would he find another living being so understanding, so forgiving, so tender in his love and fearsome in his passion, as the mortal man who held him now, nor did he wish to believe that any other could compare to him. Such was the ignorance of true and real love, a trait that blinds one from the flaws of their beloved. The Elf could traverse the face of Middle Earth for thousands of years and find none who possessed even half of the honor of Boromir of Gondor. My heart had been right, Legolas thought, before I was even aware of its mortal beat.

Boromir's voice brought the Elf from his hazy reverie: 'They have harmed you badly. Let me see your wounds.'

Legolas allowed himself to be lowered into a seated position on the table while Boromir stood before him, studying his torn tunic, weeping shoulder, and raw wrists with darkened eyes and a grim face. 'Did they…' he blinked long and swallowed the bitter words, then said haltingly, 'did they use you?'

'No,' Legolas answered quickly and averted his eyes, unwilling to even allow such awful thoughts into his mind. 'No, they only mutilated me.'

Boromir strained to withhold his anger, and leaned down to grasp the hem of the crimson tunic he wore beneath his leather jerkin. With his elven blade he began to cut a wide ribbon about the circumference. He halved the torn strip and used each to bind Legolas' chaffed wrists, and then set about tearing a larger swath to mend the Elf's shoulder. He worked quickly, with the efficiency of a soldier long accustomed to dressing field wounds during battle. Legolas felt a deep appreciation for such often-overlooked skills.

'That shall have to do,' said Boromir urgently, casting a glance toward the door. 'Come, we must hurry. Can your legs bear you?'

Legolas nodded.

'Good. Follow me.' With quiet haste they slipped from the room though the shattered door, then Legolas paused just outside the threshold. Boromir turned to give him a curious glance.

'I must first do something,' the Elf muttered, and disappeared inside the room. A few moments later there came several loud crashes, and when Boromir sprang to the door he saw Legolas approaching with a torch in hand. Behind him lay the shattered remains of three barrels once filled with grog. 'No Elf shall want for death upon that table,' he said darkly, staring at the icon of torture. 'I was its last victim.' And he tossed the burning brand into the room. The grog caught fire with a great flapping sound, like that of a sail filling with wind, and Legolas strode away from the scene. Boromir stared after him with both fear and admiration, for he had never witnessed such vengeful devices from so mild a heart. Legolas possessed a noble disposition and elven temperance, this Boromir knew, but he also held a terrible fierceness that belied his fair face, making him both beautiful and deadly, a wild creature roaming in places where all others feared to tread. And the man felt no shame in admitting that he wished he possessed such traits with the same fervor as the Prince of Mirkwood.

Boromir jogged to the fore and took up Legolas' hand, leading him along a broad corridor and to a dilapidated staircase that fell into blackness. 'Mind the bodies,' he cautioned, kicking aside a dead Orc he had hewn in two from head to chest. 'And excuse the entrails.'

Legolas grinned despite himself. 'Do you always leave such a gruesome mess behind you, Captain?'

He could hear the smile in Boromir's voice as he replied, 'Only when something of great value is at stake.'

The stairs ended, and from above they could hear the sounds of chaos and disorder. No doubt the Orcs had discovered the blaze and were beginning to battle it; that would buy precious time for Boromir to fulfill his oath. 'This way,' he hissed, stealthily pulling Legolas past several halls. Orcs were shouting and running down many of these, though they took no notice of two fair enemies traveling safely within the shadows. 'In here,' said Boromir as they came to a broad doorway. It closed behind them and an atmosphere of eerie disquietude settled in the darkness where they stood.

'What is this place?' Legolas asked softly, looking at the barred doors that lined the corridor.

'The prison cells,' answered Boromir, turning to gaze at the Elf. 'And what lured you to Dol Guldur.'

The sound of movement behind the doors reached Legolas' keen ears, and he uttered a wordless oath when he saw the faces that lay beyond the iron bars. '_No!_' he cried to himself in his own tongue, stricken, stumbling backwards in shock. 'W_hy could it not have been an illusion? Such a nightmare cannot be true!_'

Boromir immediately went to Galron's door, and found the Elf waiting for him. 'Did you find your friend?' the fair prisoner asked hopefully, and sighed with relief at Boromir's confirmation. 'I hope he did not suffer long at their hands.'

'He suffered,' the man murmured, 'yet the reign of blood was ended by his hand. No Elf shall again be tortured in Dol Guldur.'

Legolas appeared behind Boromir, looking anxious and desperate. 'We must free them, Boromir! We must get them out of here!'

'I plan to,' Boromir muttered, studying the reinforced door. 'I could try breaking the lock.' He drew his sword. 'Stand back, Galron!' The Elf obediently took several steps back.

Boromir's heavy blade fell uselessly on the door's lock, sending sparks flying. Galron winced at the tremendous noise, covering his ears as the Captain continued to strike. Legolas laid a hand on his arm and said, 'Lend me your knife, Boromir.' The man slipped the blade from his belt and passed it to the Elf, then turned back to try another plan. Swords were obviously worthless here—perhaps brute strength would be more useful. Boromir took an iron bar in each hand and pulled as hard as he could, grunting under the strain. The little window did not give, no matter how hard he tugged and worried. The sudden sound of scraping metal caused Boromir to turn to the prince, who was effectively chipping away at a rusty hinge with the edge of his dagger. With some difficulty Legolas wiggled the bolt loose and plucked it from its hinge. He then without pause set to work on the next.

Boromir stood dumbfounded and imagined himself quite silly for not having thought of such a clever trick. 'I am glad you are with me, Legolas,' he said as he busied himself with the hinges of another door, 'to act wisely when I act foolishly.'

Legolas remained focused on his work and replied, 'And I am glad you are with me, Boromir, to act bravely when wisdom counts for nothing.'

At last the final bolt fell free and the impenetrable door was heaved open from the opposite fulcrum. Galron stepped from his cell, gazed upon the face of Legolas with surprise, and bowed low in the elven custom. The prince felt his heart crumple with grief at the pathetic-looking Elf before him. '_Please, do not bow to me,_' he begged. '_I am not the being I once was._'

'_Nor am I, your highness,_' replied Galron, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. Legolas placed a hand upon his shoulder and said nothing more. Together they turned to the remaining cells.

One by one the doors fell loose, and the freed Elves eagerly set to work on the doors still holding their captive kin, using whatever tools or strength they had. It pained Boromir to see these poor creatures in full: their shorn hair, their thin scarred bodies, their ragged clothes. Some he noticed were missing fingers or an eye, and cruel notches had been carved into their pointed ears. Such images filled him with the desire to see Dol Guldur burn to ashes, yet even that would not be enough to rectify the terrible crimes that had transgressed within these walls. If the earth opened up and swallowed this fortress into a pit of darkness and fire, ruled by beasts more terrible than Balrogs or Wargs, still it would seem too merciful for these wicked fiends.

At last the final door fell open, and the remaining prisoners took their first steps into freedom. Boromir made a quick count: sixteen in all, eighteen counting Legolas and himself. It would take a miracle for them to flee the fortress without notice; however, it was miracles which had taken them this far. Perhaps their fortune would last a little while longer.

'This way,' Boromir said, ushering the Elves from the corridor and into the open. 'Stay together. Legolas, bring up the rear while I clear the way for them.'

'I cannot fend off Orcs with your dagger alone,' Legolas called. 'They stripped me of my weapons'

'Not all of them!' Boromir took the Lórien bow from his back and tossed it to the Elf, who caught it with a startled smile. 'You will have to find arrows, I'm afraid. But I trust a bow that sturdy could cause quite a bit of pain when taken to one's head, aye?'

'Just lead us out of here, Captain,' Legolas insisted brightly. 'Let me worry about my weapon.'

Boromir nodded and held his sword before him, peering around the corner ere he signaled the Elves to follow. Last came Legolas, keen eyes watching for enemies that might appear. Through narrow passages and dank halls they went, moving as quietly as they could while the noise from the floors above grew in intensity. Inevitably the Orcs had discovered that no army lay for them behind the trees, and the fire in the torture-room must have alerted them that the enemy could already be inside the fortress. Time was short and they needed to make haste, yet they could not move fast with such a large caravan. Boromir's heart thudded in his chest, never knowing if the next turn would bring them to a mob of angry Orcs, armed and ready to cut them down. With one sword and a bow with no arrows, they stood little chance against such a crowd. Boromir prayed that he was leading his charges to safety. He felt responsible for these Elves now, and should anything happen to one of them he would never be able to forgive himself. Failure was not an option at this point—he must succeed or die trying.

Two Orcs blocked the next corridor, and Boromir made swift work of them both, then led the Elves past the dying bodies. Galron paused to spit on them before following. Just when Boromir was certain he had taken a wrong turn in this labyrinth of passages, a breath of cool fresh air caused him to run ahead and find the splintered door through which he had entered. Sentries were nowhere to be seen, save for the one dead Orc still lying upon the bridge. Boromir returned to his company and motioned for them to hurry through. One by one they stepped into the night air, and Legolas emerged at the rear. He appeared troubled. 'I hear many footsteps in our wake,' he said to Boromir in a quiet voice. 'I fear we have been discovered.'

'Then we must move quickly,' the man uttered, and turned to the Elves that stood awkwardly in small groups. 'There are archers on the turrets,' he told them. 'On my signal, split up and run as fast as your legs can carry you. Keep your heads down, and arms tucked close to your bodies. Do not run a line, but dodge to and fro, like a deer fleeing wolves. When you reach the trees, wait for the others. From there we shall reassemble and make our way through.'

The Elves stood quietly for a few moments, and then one, a young Elf with only one eye, said very softly, 'Thank you, Captain Boromir.'

The severity of the moment seemed to lessen at the sound of those gentle words, and Boromir smiled in acceptance. Legolas stepped forward. 'We cannot all pass at once,' he whispered.

'That is our only chance,' the man replied, turning away from the others so that their conversation was more private. 'If your ears were correct—and I am inclined to believe that they were—then any moment now there is going to be a small army of Orcs at our heels, and if we are not all off this bridge by then…' He reached up and began to unclasp his Lórien cloak.

'What are you doing?' Legolas demanded as Boromir proceeded to fasten the broach about the prince's throat. 'Boromir!'

'Your leg is injured and you are slow,' the man muttered. 'May my cloak own to its purpose and shield you from unfriendly eyes.'

Legolas' mouth hung open in disbelief. 'What then are you to…no. No, I will not go!'

'You must. If any arrows are shot, they will be aimed towards me.'

'I refuse,' the prince hissed, his face dark with anger.

'That choice is not yours,' Boromir snapped.

Legolas was trembling with passion. 'Foolish Man!' he cried. 'Obstinate, stupid Man!' In the next moment he was in Boromir's arms, embracing him tightly. 'I will not live to mourn you.' He pulled away, and the fear in his eyes overwrote the anger in his words. Boromir brushed his fingers against Legolas' fair cheek, and gazed into the Elf's clear eyes. 'Then live to honor me.'

The prince whispered, 'I already do.'

Boromir gazed for another few moments upon the face of his own heart, his _mellon_, before saying, 'Run. Now.'

And then Legolas was gone, dashing silently across the bridge with the rest of the elven prisoners. They reached the ground safely and their formation scattered. Then a cry sounded from the turrets above and the arrows began to fly, barely missing their marks. Boromir sheathed his sword, took a breath, and thought once more of Legolas before plunging out into the open.

'Get him!' a voice screamed. 'Get the Man! Shoot him down!'

Boromir threw himself to the left and heard the arrow smash into the stone bridge. Another arrow whistled over his shoulder, and he changed direction.

'Don't let 'im get away, ye fools! _Shoot him!_'

An arrow struck the bridge before him and he tripped, rolling painfully across the stones. Arrows rained all around Boromir, clattering and ricocheting, whizzing through his hair, tearing through the skirt of his jerkin. Within seconds he was on his feet again and running as fast as he could go, fighting to control his panic, embarrassed by his fear, ashamed of his retreat. This was not how a soldier upheld his honor. Perhaps, he thought fleetingly, I have replaced my warrior's heart with that of a lover's.

Up ahead the first of the Elves had reached the forest and disappeared into its darkness. A hundred more paces and Boromir would be with them. Yet where was Legolas? The man did not spot him, and terror seized his heart. If the prince had fallen, his cloak would make it impossible for human eyes to see him in the shadows—what if he had been struck by an arrow?

Boromir shook his head, banishing all doubts from his mind. Legolas had not fallen. He was running, perhaps already within the trees. There could be no other way. It was impossible.

A great row sounded from the fortress; they had escaped just in time, for the angry crowd Boromir had dreaded came pouring forth from the gate. Arrows thudded into the ground at his heels, along with spears and spikes flung from the foot soldiers. Boromir stumbled over one and then another. But as the distance between him and his enemies grew greater, the accuracy of their arrows grew less and less, until finally the terrible sound of flying projectiles was left behind. He heard the call to cease volley, and the Captain burst into the welcome cover of the trees. He paused to catch his breath a moment, leaning his hands upon his knees. 'Legolas! Galron!' he called, looking about for any signs of the Elves. 'Anyone! Are you there?'

'We are here,' came a small voice, and a cluster of Elves emerged from between the trees. They appeared nervous and uneasy. Boromir stepped forward and took a quick count.

'Many are still missing. Did you see any of your people fall?'

'Nay,' said one Elf. 'I was one of the last to reach the wood. I saw none fall.'

'Some good news at last,' Boromir sighed. 'Wait here. I shall go to find the others.'

No sooner had he spoken those words than a scream rent the air, causing all of them to gasp in fear and take hold of one another. Boromir's blood went cold when he realized the safe haven into which he thought he had led the Elves was in truth a trap; that the spiders, he had forgotten, would be waiting to receive their promised prizes. Another scream pierced the air, ending much too abruptly.

Boromir drew his sword and began to run in the direction of the cries. 'Stay close to me!' he shouted to the Elves behind him. 'Do not let me leave your sight!' He tore through branches and ivy, stumbled over roots as the forest around him grew thicker and blacker. The edge of the wood slowly began to fade from view, and Boromir feared to lose himself in the dark until he came upon a clearing, where the faintest of starlight illuminated his surroundings.

It was turmoil, a horrific scene set before him: Elves fighting spiders with rocks and sticks, some struggling to free themselves from tangled strings of web. In the midst of all this Boromir caught sight of Legolas, valiantly matched against two large spiders who had already wrapped one Elf from head to foot, and were attempting to drag him away. The beasts hissed and champed at the Lórien bow that struck them mercilessly, but were unprepared for Gondorian steel to relieve them of their front legs. The spiders screeched and recoiled, leaving their victim as they retreated into the trees. Legolas knelt before the Elf and set to work freeing his brethren with Boromir's dagger.

'Wicked man!' the wounded spiders screamed in their thin voices, their abbreviated limbs oozing viscous black blood. 'Your word! Your word!'

Legolas glanced up at Boromir with a curious look. 'What do they mean, _your word_?'

The man's face was creased with remorse. 'I convinced them to lead me to Dol Guldur,' he replied helplessly, 'on the condition that I bring them a fairer feast than what they found wandering blind in the forest. I gave them my word to bring Elves to them.'

Legolas was wholly shocked, and his face mirrored his feelings. 'You bargained with the spiders of Mirkwood?'

Boromir nodded regretfully. To his surprise, the elven prince smiled. 'Then they shall have us—if they can catch us!' And Legolas leaped to his feet and began to harass any spider within his reach. Any Elf on his feet was engaged in vicious combat with these most-abhorred beasts, using whatever means available to them. For beings so fair and frail-looking, they wrought havoc upon the spiders without mercy or reservation. The spiders squealed as legs were broken, eyes put out, bodies pierced with sticks and battered by rocks. Boromir felt a spring of new energy pour into his spirit and he lit into his enemies, who climbed high in the trees for safety and hissed their dismay at being fooled. 'Miserable man!' their chief snarled, nursing several gouged eyes. 'Betrayer! Gave us—your word!'

From down in the clearing the Captain of Gondor shouted, 'Then take my word and leave my friends be, or I shall hunt you and finish what was started!' From behind him came a group of Elves, throwing stones and pebbles with frightening accuracy at the chief spider and his followers, until at last the foul beasts screamed for retreat and disappeared into the trees. They were not to be seen again.

Silence descended upon the clearing, and Boromir shook the blood from his sword and sheathed it. He turned, regarding the pale but proud faces all around him. 'Thank you, all and one. _Han...hannon le_,' he said gently, and several of the Elves smiled at his use of their language. 'Is everyone accounted for?'

'Aye,' said Legolas, appearing from the trees with a shaken-looking young Elf. 'They tried to make off with Fildulin but encountered an unpleasant surprise.'

'I can scarcely imagine what that might have been.'

Legolas grinned, and in the faint light Boromir saw that his face was covered in thin red scratches, undoubtedly from a tussle within the branches. 'Are you all right?' he asked, stepping close to examine the shallow injuries.

'Of course,' Legolas answered, and met Boromir's eyes for a moment. 'You have freed the innocent from Dol Guldur, and saved me from a fate worse than death.' A smile grew on his fair face. 'And you negotiated with the spiders of Mirkwood!' he laughed. 'Never has such a reckless and insane thing been conceived, let alone committed! I think you are truly mad, Captain, maddest in the most courageous sense.'

'I did what I could in order to find you again,' Boromir said modestly. 'And sanity is a small price to pay for a friend.'

The warmth and sincerity in Legolas' eyes caused the man's heart to swell with adoration.

'My lords,' said Galron, glancing worriedly in the direction of Dol Guldur, 'what shall be done now?'

Boromir looked at Legolas, bowing his head slightly to indicate that the prince now held the authority to command and console his people, as a leader rightfully should. 'We shall move within safe distance from the fortress,' addressed Legolas firmly, 'and tend to any injuries. At dawn we shall find our bearings, and thence follow a course north-northeast. To home.'

'Home,' Galron repeated, and tears of joy filled his eyes. 'Never did I imagine this day of freedom would come, by the hands of our own Prince Legolas and his brave Captain of Gondor.'

The Prince and his Captain smiled, and together they led the free Elves from the shadow of Dol Guldur.

**To Be Continued...**


	8. The Riddle of the Rings

**Absence of Grace  
****Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

The pale light of dawn was creeping into the grey sky ere the company of Elves and one Man deemed their distance from Dol Guldur sufficient enough to rest and tend to wounds. Boromir regarded the weak and tired Elves with sympathy, and consulted with Legolas upon the matter of divvying their personal rations. Both agreed, and with great care divided their supply of lembas and other perishables among the former prisoners, all of whom expressed their deepest gratitude. A few of them even wept to taste their sorely-missed fare once more, having been forced for too long to eat the gruel of Orcs.

Legolas took Boromir aside and said, 'There is not much left now. We must be careful if we expect to last the journey across Mirkwood.'

Boromir gazed long at the elven prince, paying no heed to his words. The Elf's face was too pale, his hair streaked with dirt and dried blood, his eyes dark and restless, and the state of his torn and bloodied garments caused him to appear in terrible condition. 'Do not worry, Legolas,' the man murmured to him. 'I shall look after us all. It is my job—I am a captain, and my first concern is always the survival of my men.' He smiled gently. 'You burden yourself needlessly, _mellon_. You must rest. Come with me.'

He led Legolas to gentle ground and built a fire to ward off the morning chill. Other Elves had done the same in small groups, and now sat clustered about the fires, tending to each other's wounds or resting easy in the comfort of their newfound freedom. Their numbers were now large enough that they feared no fell creatures drawn to their presence. It was a merciful luxury, and none was more grateful for the fire's heat than Legolas. He had been miserably cold since setting foot into the night, and now he watched intently as Boromir removed his leather jerkin and draped it about his shoulders. 'Nay, Boromir,' he pleaded, 'you have done enough. I already have your cloak-'

'And still you shiver,' he interrupted. Legolas fell silent and could not meet the man's eyes. Boromir softened his voice. 'Please, take it. I have many layers beneath this, and you have naught but your undergarments, and a cloak whose purpose is to conceal and not to warm.'

Legolas did not reply but Boromir did not press; he fed the fire with sticks and sat with his elven companion in silence. He was not aware that anything was amiss until Legolas spoke to him. It was then that he saw the wet trails of tears down the prince's cheeks, and he became alarmed.

'I must tell you something, Boromir,' said Legolas in a broken voice, turning to look at the man. 'I have lost something very precious. Something which cannot be replaced.'

Boromir, already perplexed and distressed by his friend's tears, tried to guess the reason. 'Your daggers? They can be replaced, Legolas, I am certain—or found, if perhaps they-'

'No, my friend, it is not my daggers…though I wish it were something so trivial.'

The man fell silent, watching with confusion as Legolas blinked sorrowful empty eyes. 'Boromir, I am mortal.'

The Captain of Gondor felt his heart begin to ache with a despair he had never known before. For a moment he could neither speak nor breathe, but stare dumbly at the elven prince in disbelief. Before he could utter a word to deny such folly, Legolas explained to him softly: 'The Firstborn of Ilúvatar were blessed with immortality, but were also given the power to abandon this gift…or pass its power to one on the brink of death, in order to save his life.'

'I do not understand,' Boromir stammered, his throat growing thick. 'Please tell me you…did not…'

'At some point between Amon Hen and Lothlórien, as you lay dying in my boat, my heart decided that I loved you, Boromir, and it gave my grace to you.' A glimmer of happiness shone in Legolas' blue eyes, and his mouth would have smiled had he not been so pained by his confession. 'Understand, Boromir, that I do not regret the choice that was made.'

'What choice?' Boromir demanded, feeling his shock begin to take the form of tears. 'You had no choice at all-'

'That does not matter. It was a worthy sacrifice, I see that now-'

'You are a prince, for pity's sake! Whereas I-'

'You said for yourself you did not care about my rank-'

'_Confound_ rank! I have taken your life-!'

Legolas seized Boromir by the shoulder, pulling him close. 'But you have given me a new one. You have saved me from death at the hands of our enemies. You have shown me offerings of kindness and compassion. You have saved six and ten of my people—my _own_ people, to whom you owe _nothing_—from eternal suffering.'

'So that is why you love me?' Boromir asked. 'Because of my good deeds?'

Legolas appeared hurt. 'Nay,' he replied. 'I love you because your deeds define who you are: a righteous man, a strong man who will throw himself at the mercy of the Dark Lord's evil to save those about whom he cares; because I admire you, because I respect you, because my heart is forever bound to your fate. I love you, Boromir, as I have loved no other being. What about that is so difficult for you to comprehend?'

Boromir slowly raised his head. 'The belief that a creature so fair and wise-' He stroked Legolas' cheek. '-could return an old soldier's love.'

Legolas clutched tightly the hand that touched his face, and leaned forward to press his lips against Boromir's. With a startled expression he pulled back and gazed at the man as if he had never before seen him, eyes darting about searchingly, amazed and perplexed.

'Legolas…? Are you w-'

Boromir's sentence was cut short when the Elf bodily pressed himself against him, kissing him hungrily and forcefully. Boromir, overwhelmed by the fire that suddenly coursed through his veins, reached out his hands to steady the eager Legolas, and returned the kiss with ardor. It felt right in a way that would wrong all other rights, or shame what others would dare to call beauty. The soft lips, the warm breath, the gentle tongue—it was a soul screaming in the night, bright and piercing and clearer than the summer sky, purer than fire kindled from starlight, sharper than the dazzling facets of a diamond's façade. It raced through them both like a sudden frost, a bolt of lightning, yet was hotter than the core of the world.

Legolas broke away with a gasp, the look of terror and passion still writ upon his fair features. 'What is this?' he panted. 'What is this feeling? How could it be so…'

'Powerful,' Boromir breathed, dazed and sitting expressionlessly, unable to believe what had just taken place; that he had shared with an elven prince what was the most heavenly, terrible, glorious act of intimacy in his life.

Legolas brushed away the strands of golden hair that had fallen across his brow, and said nervously, 'What now should we do?'

'Rest,' Boromir answered, reaching out to tuck the stray locks behind the Elf's pointed ear. 'We must recover our strength. Then continue our path.'

'I confess,' Legolas murmured, 'that I dread what nightmares may come. I could not rest peacefully, not yet.'

'You shall,' said Boromir sternly. 'I will watch over you.'

There was no palette or bedroll to lie upon, but the ground was soft enough at the fire's edge; Legolas lay on his side and drew Boromir's jerkin around him like a blanket. He rested his head upon his bended arm, and gazed listlessly into the orange flames. Boromir tended the fire, and no more words were spoken between them. He was deep in thought, and more than once his eyes caught the faint glimmer of silver upon his left hand. The míthril ring, given to him by Lady Galadriel. He had nearly forgotten—so long ago it seemed, though it had scarcely been two days. Though his hand was stained with dirt and blood the ring remained untarnished, untouched by grime and wear. Boromir recalled Galadriel's cryptic words, mulling over them as he raked the coals and disappeared into his own thoughts.

_Wrought in silver míthril, the ring of two and one_

_Whose immortal glow cannot repair the damage done._

_However fair and strong, the leaf shall one day fall,_

_Lost before its time—farewell, the greenest leaf of all. _

'Lost before its time,' he murmured to himself, glancing sadly over at the sleeping prince. 'However fair and…' Boromir let his words fall into silence, and a strange sense of understanding sent a current of light through the darkness of his troubled mind. He turned his gaze to the ring upon his finger. '_Whose immortal glow cannot repair the damage done._' He immediately began to work at removing the ring, though it seemed stuck fast to his finger. He pulled his lips taut and ignored the discomfort, twisting as gently as he could.

_Bought with tears and blood, this ring to represent_

_The hope which took it further than its power ever meant._

'She knew,' Boromir uttered. 'She knew he was mortal. She knew of Dol Guldur. She knew for what this ring was meant. _An everlasting token, of loyalty and friendship_-'

There sounded a metallic snap, and Boromir's hand came suddenly free.

_And a love that can't be broken_.

Alarmingly, he looked down to discover he still wore a ring upon his left hand, yet in his right he held another; he raised it for a better look. It did not appear broken or maimed, and it was fashioned as the other, though its width was slightly larger. No doubt it was this ring which had hidden the smaller within its circumference. 'The ring of two and one,' Boromir whispered, amazed by the discovery. For a few moments he delighted at his deciphering of Galadriel's message, having never been a man with a keen head for codes or riddles. He had always left that to his brother Faramir, who was very clever in the ways of words. Yet still Boromir pondered: a ring made of two, for what? Was not this ring for he alone? Why hide another within it, if it was not meant for someone other than-

A shadow passed suddenly over Boromir's face, for now he fully understood. Lady Galadriel had known of Legolas' mortality, as she had known of their hardships and their victories—and she knew of their love, and the hope that carried it aloft where no hand could harm it. She knew then, Boromir realized, of the terrible passion that had kindled within the brief moment of their first kiss. And the ring—the rings—were meant for them both.

'To keep, protect and trust,' Boromir whispered, staring at the trinket. 'She wishes for us to…'

He clenched the ring in his fist and attempted to gather his senses. I could not, he thought. We are of two different peoples, two different stations, two different worlds.

He opened his eyes and rested his gaze upon the peaceful sleeping prince.

Yet he is now mortal, no different than I. He bleeds as I, he weeps as I, feels pain and hunger and cold as any man.

No. No, I simply will not allow it. Even if I did, what have I to offer an elven prince? None of the things his people treasure. And we are yet strangers to one another, for Legolas knows little of me, and I even less of him. What would his father say? What would _both_ our fathers say?

Boromir watched Legolas sleep as the fire crackled and the morning dawned grey and dreary all around them.

I cannot deny that I love him dearly, despite all reason and excuses I can conjure for his better interest. Would he willingly wear my ring for the rest of his life? Could he bear to stand proudly at my side? Marriage was never my intention—I have forever been wed to my sword, and never sought a commitment beyond a single night's unmoored passions. And he: he is an Elf, a free spirit, loyal to his kin and his homeland, and the countless years of life that separate us have only just brought him to his prime. Who am I to claim this treasure for myself, to pluck the rose before it has bloomed to its fullest beauty? How dare I presume to possess such a creature as a man possesses his spouse? I could not!

Legolas stirred quietly and then lay still again. Boromir at last worked the ring off of his finger and held it in his hand with the other.

_Wrought in silver míthril, the ring of two and one_

_Whose immortal glow cannot repair the damage done._

_However fair and strong, the leaf shall one day fall,_

_Lost before its time—farewell, the greenest leaf of all._

_Bought with tears and blood, this ring to represent_

_The hope which took it further than its power ever meant._

_To keep, protect and trust: an everlasting token_

_Of loyalty and friendship, and a love that can't be broken._

With these echoes churning through his thoughts, Boromir closed his eyes and wondered if his heart was not already spoken for; for if it was, attempting to reason with it was an utter waste of time.

...ooo...

As midday approached Boromir roused himself and woke Legolas, who seemed much improved from his rest. They spoke nothing of what had occurred between them, but with mutual understanding went about their duty of ensuring the wellness of the group, selflessly focused on their task in spite of their own private matters. They distributed rations of water, hoping that they would find a stream ere the close of day, lest they all go thirsty. Together the company of Elves gathered and set out, Legolas leading the way and Boromir bringing up the rear.

They walked single file or in pairs through the brush until they came upon a narrow trail, little more than a beaten path. Legolas was gladdened by this discovery and urged the company to march more hastily. In the dim light of day that filtered down though the brown leaves, Boromir was able to more clearly see the forest of the Woodland Realm, and marvel at its air of mystery and wonder. The trees were steadily becoming larger the deeper they wound into the forest's core, and gradually things began to look greener, more healthy and less menacing. The ivy that grew in all places lay dormant instead of dead, waiting for the first warm breath of spring to rouse it from its winter slumber. The carpet of dead leaves gave way to green things, moss and grass and thriving shrubs. The unseen clouds above broke and shed golden sunbeams through the branches, lighting up the surroundings with a soft yellow glow. Boromir saw woodland creatures, deer and black squirrels and birds, watching the party's trek through the forest. Somehow his heart was made lighter by the presence of these animals, whose company he had never before so fully appreciated. After witnessing such suffering and encountering so many wicked beasts, the man could begin to understand why his heart welcomed the peaceable fauna; for the living things created by divinity feared evil and fled before the shadow of darkness, therefore their presence meant that they were at last entering a realm of safety and refuge.

The company marched all day, pausing briefly only a few times during the course of their journey to eat, drink or tend to wounds irritated by travel. Just before dusk they came across a shallow brook, its water clean and cold. Legolas and Boromir filled their water-skins for the rest of the journey and decided it would be best to camp here for the night. 'We have come far,' Legolas told Boromir as they sat together by the brook, watching the wood grow darker around them. 'If the weather remains fair we should reach the forest road in two days, and another day's journey will take us to my father's halls.'

Boromir smiled to himself. 'I hope your father will approve of me.'

'When he hears of your heroics he shall have no other choice,' Legolas laughed softly.

Boromir shook his head humbly. 'I am no hero—only a soldier returning a father his son. He would be glad to see you once more.'

The prince's smile faded. 'Perhaps,' he murmured.

Boromir waited before asking gently, 'Will you tell him of your...sacrifice?'

'I have no choice. He will discover the truth before long; he should hear it from my own lips. There is much I must explain.'

'I shall accompany you if you so desire. Facing one's father can be a daunting task, I speak from experience.'

Legolas raised his head and smiled. 'Thank you, Boromir.'

The man returned his smile, and said as casually as he could, 'Your father must not be the only Elf awaiting your return. I am...certain your wife will be relieved to have you home.'

Legolas laughed brightly, eyes twinkling as his cheeks colored. 'Me? Wed? _Ai Ilúvatar_, how remarkably absurd! A foolish elfling such as myself! Ah, but do forgive me, Boromir. It has been long since my last laugh. No, I am not wed, nor do I soon expect to be, if my father should have anything to say about it.'

'Why not?' Boromir asked, concealing his relief. 'I should think King Thranduil would delight in marrying off his only son. Does he not expect heirs to his throne?'

The Elf-prince wiped his wet eyes upon his sleeve, still grinning from his bout of mirth. 'My father is quite unusual,' he answered. 'He is only the second king of the Woodland Realm since the beginning, when Elves first came to the north wood. He has enjoyed a lengthy rule and shows no sign of retiring.'

'Then do you not expect to inherit the throne?'

'Not as long as my father lives. He is stubborn and contrary and proud of his kingdom, though I know he grows worried for the deepening shadow in his realm.'

Boromir nodded. 'My own father worries as much.'

Legolas' smile disappeared. 'But do you ever feel that he resents you?'

The man hesitated before responding. 'Why so? Does your father resent you, Legolas?'

'I am not certain. But I am my mother's son, after all.'

'You never told me of your mother. Is she then queen of this realm?'

Legolas shook his head. 'She is gone.'

'How terrible. My condolences to you.'

'Nay, she is not perished. She departed Greenwood long ago.' His voice fell to a whisper, and a sad demeanor took him. 'I was still a babe when she left us, my father and I.' He glanced at Boromir, listening raptly. 'I suppose it is no use being secretive now; my mother was a Green-elf, one of the old races who lived in the wide open regions of Eriador, west of the great forests, beneath star and sun. My father told me she was beautiful, but impatient and restless, not of noble birth. She was a wanderer and a rogue, skilled yet unwise. Their betrothal was arranged without her consent and she resisted, but her father threatened to exile her if she refused. Thus she left behind her home—and her lover—to journey to Greenwood with her husband, who was not yet king.

'She hated my father almost as much as she hated his realm, and she grew ill pining for her love and the open sky. My father loved her dearly and knew that she was miserable, yet he was too selfish to give her back to her family. Imagine her agony when she discovered she was heavy with child, the son of the Elvenking whom she loathed. She did not love me when I was born, and when I had drunk my last from her uncaring breast, she disappeared. My father did not bother searching for her, for he knew where she had gone: back to her home, and the arms of her lover. Perhaps they have since gone to the Grey Havens, for the flat lands of the west now stand empty. Of my mother's whereabouts I know nothing.

'Since then my father has raised me. Sometimes he remarks how like I am to my mother, and I cannot tell if he means to insult or to praise. I know he sees in me much of himself, for he warns me against hasty affairs and commitments I am unready to bear, especially those concerning relationships. I imagine he must sometimes curse himself for my upbringing, for perhaps I am still too irresponsible and childish for his liking.'

'I have not seen this childish side,' Boromir insisted.

Legolas grinned sheepishly. 'You have not seen me in my father's presence. He always succeeds in bringing out my unbecoming traits. I fear I am quite the impish little brat, as he himself used to say.'

Boromir reached out to stroke Legolas' cheek with the back of his fingers. 'It is a pity then,' he said, 'that your father does not see the virtues in you that I so adore.'

Legolas grasped the hand that touched his face and held it fast. 'I am not perfect, Boromir,' he said softly.

'I do not expect you to be,' the man answered, 'as I do not expect you to believe I am without fault. I pity the flawless, for they have nothing for which to strive; no room to grow. And I have found, through my own experience, that life without the opportunity to grow is no life at all. Had I been unable to change, had my course been laid unwavering before me, I would have perished at Amon Hen, never to know honor and courage and sacrifice.' Boromir stared deeply into the prince's eyes. 'Never to know love. And what good would have been my life then?'

Something stirred in Legolas' heart as he listened to Boromir's words, something he had never felt before but which he knew was slowly beginning to awaken. It worried and elated him, and he knew not which to express. So he remained quiet and thoughtful, but drew himself to Boromir's side, and allowed the man to wrap his arms around him. It felt even better than when he had been cut from the chain at Dol Guldur, and fell half-senseless into the Captain's embrace. Protection, camaraderie, strength, trust; this is what the feeling meant to Legolas. And he wondered what it would be like to have Boromir's arms always waiting to receive him, any time he desired warmth and companionship.

'My father will try to discourage me from leaving home,' said Legolas after a long silence. 'He will seek to protect me for the rest of my life, in an attempt to save me from death.'

'I thought that was my job,' Boromir replied with a faint smile.

'But you will not always be with me,' the Elf murmured, his voice soft and almost sad. 'We must surely part some day.'

Boromir's heart began to pound. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the rings, which remained cool despite the warmth of his flesh. He leaned his cheek against Legolas' golden hair. 'What if,' he began, 'what if that day never dawned? What if there was a way in which we could part, yet remain inseparable?'

The prince pulled away, his expression worried. 'What do you mean?'

Boromir felt his head become light, his heart sending a rush of blood through his veins. He was nervous and afraid, emotions which clashed against the image he had forged of a fearless captain, unwavering and fearsome in the eyes of his foes. Yet here he sat before an Elf—the beautiful creature who had seen hope in his darkness and paid the ultimate price to save him—and he felt like a stuttering lovesick fool. Boromir was startled when Legolas reached forth to lay a hand upon his shoulder. 'Boromir,' repeated Legolas urgently, 'what do you mean?'

The man gazed, transfixed, into the prince's blue eyes, and told himself that if he dared to do what he intended, he might never see those eyes again; and just as he was about to mutter his shy words of retreat, his heart surged with a last desperate hope—for there was nothing else he had left—and realized that his mortal love could fall tomorrow, never to know the true depth of the Captain's own heart. And still he would never see those eyes again. Rather would Boromir face a hundred rejections than regret not having taken one chance.

He pulled his hand from his pocket and opened it. Legolas looked down at the míthril rings with surprise, and Boromir could see the Elf's breath quicken. 'What are these?' he asked in a choked whisper. 'Where did you get them?'

'Galadriel gave them to me,' Boromir murmured. 'Her knowledge of us extends farther than we ourselves can see.'

Legolas raised his eyes to give the man a frightened look. 'What do you mean?'

'She knew of your mortality long before I, as she knew of our plight in Dol Guldur…and of this passion that stands like a fire between us now.'

'Does she then decide our fates for us?' Legolas said heatedly, regarding the rings. 'Can we not choose our own paths? What business is it of Lady Galadriel's to influence our decisions?'

'Is it influence,' Boromir asked softly, 'or was this path inevitable?'

Legolas fell silent, though his anxiety was apparent. His hands had begun to tremble, and he tucked them tightly under his arms in an attempt to conceal his discomfort.

Boromir shifted his weight and drew a breath. 'Legolas, I know nothing of what lies ahead of me in my life, nor do I pretend to understand the powers which brought us to this place, but I do know this: I love you as I have loved no other being in this world, and I offer you now my heart, my body, and my soul, for without you I would have none of them. You are the bravest, cleverest, fairest creature I shall ever set eyes upon, and I would bind myself to you today if it meant death tomorrow—for I would rather be yours for one day than live the rest of my life without you.'

Legolas stared with flushed disbelief as Boromir took up the larger míthril ring and slipped it onto his left index finger. He then held out the smaller ring to the Elf, who recoiled, pale with fright, eyes wide with bewilderment.

'You will for ever possess my heart, Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, whether or not you accept this ring. I will not force it onto your finger, for I wish you to wear it of your own will, as a token of your true feelings and intentions.'

Legolas gazed at the ring, and never had Boromir seen the Elf so unhinged. 'I'm frightened,' he confessed in a voice choked with emotion. 'I am frightened for our fate if I accept this ring.'

'As am I,' Boromir replied steadily. 'The brave Captain of Gondor now has a reason to fear death, for he has something precious to lose.'

Legolas swallowed the knot in his throat and reached out, gently plucking the míthril ring from Boromir's grasp, and sliding it onto his left index finger. 'I bind myself to you, Boromir of Gondor,' he said as tears slid quietly down his cheeks, 'to honor and love you as my heart so fiercely craves. Our souls are already joined as one, and may they be parted by nothing save the mortal death that awaits us both.' He raised his eyes to Boromir's and smiled. 'I love you. My Captain.'

Boromir leaned forward and pulled Legolas close. 'My Prince,' he whispered into the golden hair.

And night fell upon the two shadows held tightly in embrace, the fading light catching a final sparkle of silver míthril.

**To Be Continued...**


	9. Hero of His Heart

﻿**Absence of Grace  
****Author: **HJ Bender  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** Coldness and distrust runs deep between Boromir of Gondor and Legolas of Mirkwood; and it isn't until the Elf saves the man from death that the two discover much deeper feelings are running between them.  
**Disclaimer:** I own only the idea, and the order in which these words are written.

_To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.  
Absence of proof is not proof of absence._

It was still dark when Legolas slowly woke. The embers of the fire glowed faintly, giving little heat, yet he was warm. He stirred and felt weight lying against him, and when he rose, Boromir's arm, which had been draped over the Elf's waist, slid free. Boromir mumbled wordlessly in his sleep before his eyes lifted open. 'Is it morning?' he whispered.

'Nay,' said Legolas, 'but the sun will be here soon.'

The man heaved a reluctant sigh before he too sat up, brushing the disheveled locks of red-gold hair from his eyes. The Elf watched him intently, seeing the strength given by rest return to Boromir's sturdy body, and admired the handsome features of his face that were made no less fair by fatigue and grime. This was the keeper of his soul, the hero of his heart. The lover to whom he was for ever bound. Legolas rubbed his thumb against the míthril ring he now wore, and knew that he had made the right decision. My heart is far wiser than I, he thought with a smile. I would do well to listen to it more often.

Boromir caught sight of the Elf's smile and smiled himself. 'Sleep well?' he asked.

'With thanks to you,' Legolas answered, and meant it. No longer did he fear the threat of nightmares, so long as Boromir was present to drive them away. He reached out and grasped the man's left hand with his own, and they wove their fingers together until míthril gleamed beside míthril.

'How do you feel?' asked Boromir softly, gazing down at their hands.

Legolas took a deep breath of cool morning air and lifted his head to behold the first rays of sunlight glowing warmly through the leaves. Birds began to twitter, and the Elf smiled. 'Ready.'

...ooo...

There was a region of Mirkwood still untouched by the hand of darkness, a part which remained enchanted and beautiful, and it was through this that the company followed their narrow path. Legolas once again led his people among the beeches and oaks, and Boromir followed at the end of the line. Quickly would he have grown restless and lonely were it not for Galron, who intentionally fell back to keep the man company. Boromir was grateful for the gesture of kindness—he had not expected an imprisoned Elf to so quickly regain his merriness or concern for others. Any man in Galron's position would be scarred for life, ever gloomy and haunted by memories of the dungeon where he had been tortured. But the Elf's eyes twinkled without shadow, his cropped locks still shone golden in the sunlight, and the scar across his cheek did not mar the beauty of his smile. Already was the memory of Dol Guldur behind him. Boromir found himself admiring such resilience, and wondered if it were not an attribute of the entire elven race.

He spoke with Galron for the greater part of the day's march, and the Elf did not refuse any question asked of him, not that Boromir was insensitive when it came to the topic of his imprisonment. 'I was one of the first,' Galron admitted. 'Three of our guards had vanished along with a trading party bound for the south lands. Our search brought us too near Dol Guldur, and by the time we realized our mistake it was too late; the _yrch_ surrounded us and we were taken, though we fought hard. There were far too many of them.'

Boromir listened as Galron spoke of his first encounter upon the Table of Blood, the toil and labor forced upon the prisoners, the extermination of the weak, and the cruelty of being used as the key implement to gather more elven slaves. 'Many of us did not survive,' he said softly, 'especially the females. Not one of them lasted a fortnight. For every five Elves brought to Dol Guldur, three perished or released themselves.'

'Released?' Boromir inquired.

'Self-death,' Galron explained. 'Escape from the flesh, when one's soul flees its earthly temple.'

'You can do that?'

'Indeed. Though sometimes it is a terrible temptation, knowing that peace is so near when one suffers so. It takes much to keep one's _fea_ grounded to this world.'

Boromir puzzled. 'What then kept you from releasing yourself?'

The Elf smiled. 'The same thing that brought you to Dol Guldur.'

'Madness?' he ventured.

Galron laughed. 'Hope, Captain. The virtue which has reunited you with your lover.'

Boromir was no stranger to the baser world of a man's unabashed physical needs, yet he felt his face burn hotly at the word which referred to Legolas. 'Is it that obvious?' he asked.

Galron continued to grin knowingly. 'We have all seen the two of you together, Captain Boromir. It would be obvious to even a fool that the both of you are mad in love. In all honesty your pairing is an unconventional one—and I am sure his majesty will have a few choice words about it—but by my knowledge you are a fine fellow, and worthy of our prince's affection.'

Boromir smiled politely at Galron's compliment, though still he was bashfully blushing for having made his feelings so obvious. If only my men could see me now, he thought. I must look like a lovesick young boy.

Seeing that the man had fallen into a shy stupor, Galron said to him, 'How well is your Elvish, Captain?'

'Terrible at best,' said Boromir quite seriously. 'I hope your people speak the Common Tongue with as much ease as you, my friend.'

'Most do,' said Galron, 'but there is no harm in learning a few phrases, especially if you hope to make a good impression upon King Thranduil.'

'That I would, even if I were not involved with his son.'

Galron chuckled. 'Well then, if you would accept my tutelage I will be more than happy to teach you some basic Elvish. Let us begin with salutations. When you greet the king, address him thus:_ Aiya! Le suilon, Thranduil Aran!_'

Boromir appeared momentarily horrified. 'Good gods I could never manage that.'

'Of course you could. Try the first part: _Aiya! Le suilon_.'

Up ahead on the trail, Legolas smiled as his keen elven ears picked up the awkward Sindarin vowels. Too much time spent in the company of Elves, he thought merrily. Boromir should take care lest he become one himself!

...ooo...

Much ground was covered through the forest that day. The Elves, despite their poor conditions and the exhaustion of the _lembas_, retained their happiness. It was a difficult thing to be dismal when one's surroundings were so beautiful: the trees had grown tall and thick, draped with flowering ivy. Some of the great beeches still held their leaves, though they were faded and lacking the verdant colors of the long-passed autumn. Signs of spring could be seen in the budding of flowers on the forest floor, and new sprouts of ferns springing forth from the dirt. The forest had become open and inviting, high-ceilinged and sunlight-streaked, where the brooks rushing through the gullies were almost musical, and birdsong filled the lull of quiet conversations. It seemed peaceful and serene here, and Boromir had trouble believing that the ominous shadows he had seen the first night were indeed part of this same wood. Soon the flat terrain gave way to slopes and hills, and Galron said with apparent joy that they were come to the foothills of the forest mountains, nearly a day's march from home. Navigating the steadily rising ground was weary work, and Boromir would feel the aches of travel in his limbs at the end of the day.

Nightfall came without gloom and fear, and the stars shone through the gaps of the branches. The Elves formed groups and built fires, falling asleep effortlessly in the sanctum of their home. It seemed less cold here, and Legolas shivered not; still Boromir built a fire, knowing that its warmth would be welcomed in the coldest hour before daylight. As he was gathering grass and sticks for kindling, he took notice of the awkward way Legolas held his right arm. 'Your shoulder is crippling you,' he said softly. 'You should let me examine it.'

The Elf nodded silently, feigning no false strength; the sobering pains of mortality had stolen his pride. He sat on his legs beside Boromir and undressed his upper half while the man struck flint and kindled a fire. 'What a luxury, matches,' Boromir said almost to himself, stowing the flint rock in his satchel. 'If it were not for military sojourns across country I would have forgotten how to use…'

He lifted his head and trailed off, eyes captured by the sight of Legolas peeling back the blood-soaked bandage over his wounded shoulder. The prince's chest was bare from the waist up, his skin faintly mottled with bruises, dirt and dried blood. Boromir had never seen him this unclothed before, and was surprised by how much stronger Legolas appeared: his chest was firm and sculpted, his abdomen well-formed and his arms taut with muscle. Now Boromir understood from where came this hidden strength—never would he have guessed such a fair slender creature to possess a warrior's physique.

'By the gods, you are beautiful,' Boromir murmured in a whispered rush, unable to contain his thoughts. He quickly checked himself and moved forward to assist. 'Forgive me. I…I did not mean to be so base. Please, allow me.'

Legolas smiled at the man to show he was not offended, then grimaced as the sticky bandage was pulled from his bloody wound. Boromir's eyes darted from the Elf's shoulder to his face. 'Sorry,' he uttered.

'No need,' Legolas hissed, wincing. 'It was no fault of yours.'

Boromir gazed at the scabbing laceration with a grim expression. 'It does not appear infected—which I cannot imagine from the conditions of that abominable place—but it needs to be cleaned and re-bandaged. Is there any herb that grows here which could help?'

Legolas shook his head. 'Nay; and I am not so wise in the ways of healing.'

'Nor I, save for crude mends. Here—lie on the ground and I will do what I can.'

Legolas did as he was bidden and gingerly let himself down upon the ground. Boromir leaned over him and poured water from his pouch upon the Elf's wound, and cleaned it with a strip of cloth from his own tunic. Legolas held his lip between his teeth and concentrated on Boromir's face in an attempt to draw his attention from the pain. It did not, however, go unnoticed.

'I know this hurts terribly,' Boromir murmured. 'I can see it in your eyes, and I feel your pain in my heart. I hope we will soon be found—I cannot bear to see you remain so injured with remedy still far off.'

Legolas smiled slightly and reached up to grasp the man's hand. 'Now you know how I felt,' he said, 'when I carried you in my boat.'

'It is a wretched feeling.'

'It is love.'

Boromir gazed down at Legolas, skin and hair glowing gold in the orange light of the fire, and suddenly wanted him. He wanted to hold the Elf, to feel his bare body beside his own, to kiss him, to make love to him, to free his heart of the heavy burden he had been carrying in Legolas' name. One part of Boromir was baffled by his unnatural yet ready attraction to one of his own sex, but the greater part of him felt that this corporeal dilemma was only a trifle; for it was what lay beyond Legolas' flesh—the mortal light that still burned eternal within him—that Boromir wished to touch.

The desire that swept through him in that moment was greater than any calling the One Ring had ever made to him—more powerful than his loyalty to Gondor, stronger than his love for his people, more fearful than any foe he had challenged. Everything he cherished paled in comparison to what he now felt, and it frightened Boromir when he realized that he would do anything—betray his people, abandon his family, throw down his sword—to be with Legolas, this Elf, his one love.

The elven prince's expression shifted to one of awe; whether he perceived Boromir's thoughts with his heart or some other sense forged by their bond, he knew what the man felt, for he felt the desire as it were his own. And, grasping Boromir by his collar, Legolas brought him downward to meet his mouth in a warm drowsy kiss. When they finally parted, the Elf murmured in a deep hush, 'I want to feel you. My patience wanes and my love grows, and every day my body mourns for our separation.' He nuzzled Boromir's warm neck. 'Never have I been so consumed by my own desire. Is this how mortals feel?'

'I believe it is,' Boromir whispered.

Legolas cast his good arm about the man's shoulders, pressing close. 'Then I pity my own. Rather would I be mad with emotion than dispassionate and wise.'

'You are not turning from your people, are you?'

'Nay,' said Legolas, 'but, like you, I would abandon the things dearest to me and forsake all reason to be...to remain yours.'

Boromir sought words to answer but found none which could accurately describe the depth of his feelings, and so he said nothing. He finished cleaning and binding Legolas' shoulder, and together they shared their last piece of _lembas_. It was a meager portion by even elven standards, but neither of them complained. Afterwards Boromir spread his jerkin on the ground in a crude pallet and lay down with Legolas, gathering him into his arms and holding him protectively. Beneath the black dome of the star-speckled night, he fell asleep with the Elf's pale golden locks between his fingers and his warm body against his own.

...ooo...

It was dark when Boromir suddenly opened his eyes. He had been wakened by something—what, he knew not—yet the clearing where the company slept was still and quiet. His own eyes and ears would have satisfied Boromir, but a heavy wariness had settled upon him, and he knew that they were being watched. He leaned down and whispered, barely a breath and motion of his lips, 'Legolas. We are not alone.'

The Elf's blue eyes, open and fixed inward with a hazy dreaminess, suddenly sharpened and grew bright with clarity; he had awoken. Instantly he became aware of the same alarm which Boromir felt, and he pressed himself close against the man. 'Where is your sword?' he breathed.

'On my belt. You do not think we have been followed, do you?'

'No. Orcs are noisy and bumbling, and their odor is too foul to hide. Something else is out there.'

'Friend or foe?'

'I cannot tell.'

Boromir gripped Legolas' shoulder. 'On my signal we rise. Are you prepared to fight?'

'No, but I cannot bear to lay here another moment. We must confront whatever is here with us.'

'Very well. On three we spring. One…'

Legolas could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, and feel the thud of Boromir's against his back.

'Two…'

He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists.

'_Three!_'

Everything happened at once. The man and Elf flew to their feet with fierce cries, the hiss of steel sounding as Boromir drew his sword, and the low whoop of air singing from Legolas' spinning bow. The rest of the Elves were roused from their sleep and sat up in alarm as Boromir thundered, 'Who goes there? Show yourself at once!'

From the shadows of the trees came the order: 'Lower your weapon, Man!' The voice, though fair, was stern and commanding. 'It is you who trespasses in the woodland realm! Put down your arms or you will be shot!' Boromir let his sword down reluctantly, though Legolas was already leaping to his defense.

'How dare you speak so unkindly to my companion!' he cried, striding forth indignantly.

'Legolas, please calm yourself!' Boromir hissed.

'I will not! What fools own such rudeness? I order you to show yourselves!'

Into the faint moonlight stepped four cloaked and shadowed figures, who drew back their hoods to reveal handsome elven faces. They were dressed in uniforms of brown and green, and bore the symbol of a leaf upon their breasts. They carried bow and quiver, and each had a long knife on his belt. Legolas' mouth fell open at the sight and he lowered his bow.

The Mirkwood Mountain Patrol bowed respectfully to their prince. 'Forgive us, your highness,' they said. 'We did not recognize you.'

'Could you not recognize a man of Gondor either?' Legolas chided, though his expression was one of relief. 'I should be inclined to report you to your captain were I not so glad to see you!'

'Our most profound apologies, my prince! But what brings you back to Mirkwood among such a company? Who are these poor creatures that travel with you?'

Legolas turned to cast a weary gaze at Boromir, who smiled and shook his head. 'It is a long story,' Legolas said at last. 'I will tell you on the way.'

...ooo...

Dawn broke over the forest, but already the company of Elves, led now by the Mountain Patrol, was mobilized beneath the trees. One of the guards sent forth a hawk, bearing a message on its leg, to the nearest watch post, sending word that the Prince of Mirkwood was returned, along with a host of freed Elves from Dol Guldur, and the heroic Captain Boromir of Gondor. Thus word traveled far and fast from post to post, and by the time the sun was setting a great reception had gathered upon the lawn before the royal caves, to meet the party as they returned. Tears of joy were shed as loved ones ran to greet kin they had feared dead. The former prisoners wept and embraced their families. Rowdy cheers and hails rose for the Prince of Mirkwood, and Boromir was welcomed heartily once word of his heroics in Dol Guldur began to circulate.

Legolas reached over to grasp Boromir's hand, and their eyes met for a moment. Happiness and fear seemed to cast a shadow into the Elf's blue eyes, and Boromir gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. 'I will stand by you,' he murmured through the noise of song and cheer. 'I love you.'

Legolas smiled. 'And I you.'

The crowd suddenly parted and a reverent silence fell. A tall Elf strode forth through the parting throng, his emerald green robes trailing on the ground. Boromir saw that his long pleated hair had once been golden, though now it was faded pale and streaked with silver at his temples. He wore a crown of flowering ivy upon his head, and in him Boromir saw Legolas' smile, Legolas' brow, Legolas' nose. This was Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, the father of the one whom he loved.

The lordly Elf paused a few paces from the pair, regarding his son's appearance with concern in his green eyes, and gazing long at the Man who had entered his realm uninvited. In this brief silence Boromir's gallantry sprang to life, and he bowed low to the Mirkwood king. '_Aiya, le suilon, Thranduil Aran_.' He raised his eyes. 'I am Boromir son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor. Sire, your son and I bring urgent word from Loth-'

Thranduil raised his hand to halt Boromir's words, and spoke in a grave tone: 'Before you speak another word I must confirm the rumors: was it you who freed my son from the fortress of Dol Guldur?'

Boromir swallowed dryly. 'It was, sire.'

The king turned to his only child. '_Sen tîr, Legolas? Is this true?_'

He nodded faintly. '_Mae, ada._'

Thranduil continued to frown, gazing toward Boromir. 'And is it also true that this..._Captain of Gondor_ freed my imprisoned people, and that it was my own Legolas who led them hence?'

'It is true, sire,' Boromir stated.

Thranduil nodded slowly, and the dark expression on his face lifted suddenly with a smile. Tears glistened in his eyes as the King of Mirkwood strode forth and laid his hand upon Boromir's shoulder. 'Then there is no amount of gold or jewels or land I could bestow that would match the depths of my gratitude, Boromir son of Denethor.'

The king stepped back and turned to face his people. 'Let us celebrate!' he declared. 'A feast for the heroes!'

A rowdy cheer rose into the air, yet Legolas went to his father's side and implored, '_Ada, there is no time for revelry. We have journeyed far to bring a message from Lothlórien. We must_-'

'_Peace, Legolas! All will pass in good time_,' said Thranduil, turning to take his son by the shoulders. '_Ai!_ Never have I seen you so disheveled. Where are your daggers? Is that blood I see? Have you been injured?'

Legolas was so frustrated he felt as if he could shed tears and scream like a confounded child. '_Ada_, please!' he begged. 'There are more important things!'

'You are right,' Thranduil murmured. 'My attendants will see to you and the Man. You need fresh baths, and I will send my own personal healer to tend to you both. Tonight there shall be a feast in your honor, and there you may give me whatever message you bring. Tarra! Hilroth! Show our guest to the baths, and bring him garments fit for a lord. Let no request of his be denied.'

As the Elves led Boromir away, he cast a glance over his shoulder to see Legolas being ushered away by his father. They met each other's gaze for only a moment before the crowds swallowed them, their calls to one another drowning in the din of song and celebration.

**To Be Continued...**


End file.
